Whispers of the Past
by Isabelle Sumner
Summary: They are a world apart and they still think of each other. Will their bond become stronger as Tristan races to save his Christine, or will it fade while she faces her awaiting future? The past catches up with a man who has been running from it most of his life, Tristan Hawthorne must face it head on or be forever consumed by it. Continuation of "A Tale of Angloa" Trilogy Part 2
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: This is the **second** part of a trilogy. If you have not read the first part, please go back and read "A Tale of Angloa". I have two versions of this fic. This one is the first version I posted before I posted a Twilight one (a fav fandom of mine). I did not wish to remove this version since some people were reading it so I kept it, for you guys. I try to be as historically accurate as possible, so if you see any faults, please PM me. Since the country of Angloa is a made up country with its own history and culture, it may deffer from other European countries at the time. Rated M to be safe, some mature themes.

* * *

 **WHISPERS OF THE PAST**

 _Chapter 1_

 _September 5th, 1453_

The sun shone brightly in the late summer sky, its rays penetrating through the thick, leafy forest roof of Raven's Grove. There was a pleasant stillness in the desolate forest, animals grazing kept alert for any possible intruders.

Suddenly, a rabbit perked its long ears at the whoosh of an arrow, gliding through the trunks. The steel tip embedded itself a few centimeters next to the animal. The creature did not have to think twice as it ran for its life through the foliage, moss, and bushes of the forest floor. It gained speed as yet another arrow whooshed past it; closer this time.

The vibrations of hooves awakened more creatures in the woods as two riders rushed to catch the animal. One rider strung his last arrow, letting go of his reins mid-canter. His seating was secure as he held onto the eager stallion with strong thighs. He took a deep breath, the keen eyes looking at the back of the rabbit as he aimed the weapon. The arrow released with his breath, sliding forward in an elegant arch as it caught its prey. The rabbit was dead as soon as the metal head had burrowed into its skin and flesh, tearing through its innards.

The horses took both riders to the dead animal. One man got down and put it in a bag, proud of his achievement.

"Did you see that shot, Magnus?" he exclaimed gleeful, pointing to the bow he held in his hand.

The other man—much younger—scoffed but could not help a grin spread on his lips as he saw the proud look in his older brother's eyes.

"What I saw, Philip, was you recklessly letting go of your horse to catch a mere rabbit," he teased. The dark eyes gleamed mischievously as he watched his brother sigh at him while he got back on the horse.

"Cocky now, are we? I guess you will continue giving me snarky comments until I take down a deer as well today?" Philip defended as he mounted. His blue orbs could not uphold his serious countenance as he arrogantly raised an eyebrow, something that had turned into a trademark gesture for the king.

"A deer or a hog, at least," Magnus continued. "But I fear your dumb horse has scared them all away with his insistent neighing."

As if on key, the black stallion stretched his neck and let out a roaring neigh, pleased when his master patted his side. Philip's eyes wandered from the horse to Magnus for a few moments before he let out a roaring laughter. The midnight black locks fell into his eyes and gave him a roguish air.

"I think Hannibal disagrees with being called dumb, Magnus," he chuckled while urging the stallion forward.

They continued their quipping as they searched the forest for more animals. Somewhere in the distance, hounds had been released to help the other noblemen in the area locate prey as well. But they never made any effort to shoot the larger animals they found. Instead, they would send a servant to inform the king so he would be the one to take the animal down. But no matter how many servants they sent, Philip never came. He preferred finding and killing his own prey.

As the day progressed and the gentle winds stirred the forest roof more, the woodland creatures picked up the scent of the humans who had invaded the green woods. After having taken down a pheasant, Philip decided that it was enough for one day. The young monarch longed to return to Adelton Hall.

They exited the thick foliage of the forest with the train of noblemen, hounds, and servants that had accompanied the two royals. All the way to the gleaming white castle raised high on its cliff, Philip and Magnus kept talking and joking with each other.

Philip Fell looked at Adelton Hall and took in its beauty. The fairy tale castle was outlined against the Durun Mountains—where in a few months snow would paint the tops. Green forests surrounded it except for the front where an emerald green meadow with soft grass and white flowers rolled; with one narrow road that led to the town of Hayes. The yellow and orange rays of the now setting sun bathed the castle in their colors, making it take on a golden sheen.

"I can never get over how beautiful it is here," Magnus breathed as he took in the surreal landscape.

Philip looked at the scene in front of him. This was a wonderful world to live in. Angloa was a free country, she was blossoming like a flower in May. Slowly but surely she grew to be her own, to distance herself from once being a colony of the English.

"This place is like nothing I've ever known before. The mountains, the forest, the hills—everything has a power over me that I cannot explain. Whenever I am here I feel at peace," he said as he turned to his brother, at least 15 years his junior. Philip had, with carefully worded words explained just what Magnus felt.

"To think you were crowned King four years ago, my brother. Time passes quickly when in such a place."

"Time passes quickly when one is happy," Philip mused. His lips parted a silver, his face contorted into a mischievous look that soon dominated his handsome features. Philip stared at the castle in the distance. A dangerous gleam shone in his eye as he turned to his brother.

"I will race you to the gatehouse!" Philip yelled, not giving Magnus time to react as he spurred Hannibal into a wild gallop. Magnus was soon behind, yelling curse words at his brother as the other laughed loudly.

* * *

 _February 23_ _rd_ _, 1520_

The foul stench of fish and waste would not go away as her tired body laid sprawled on the messy bed. Christine found that she had no energy to move away from it. The dirty sheets surrounded her like a suffocating blanket and she stared emptily at the dark wall of the ship.

Her head was dull by now. She had spent too much time crying, and she found the tears had dried up. She only found a wrecking emptiness inside her as the waves of the Mediterranean rocked the galleon like a mother would rock the cradle of her child.

Braun locked her door these days. He had assured her several times that no harm would come to her as he had rushed her and his men to the docks. But Christine had never believed him, especially not when she had watched him shoot Mrs. Rochester. She had tried in vain to take the men down as they set to rape the younger maids in their townhouse. When she closed her eyes, she could hear their raw cries claw the walls of her mind as several of Braun's men took turns with the maids. Braun himself went over the best way to flee the city.

Christine had not believed Braun's reassuring words as they bribed the merchant to take them to Cadiz. The merchant had sealed his own doom when Braun's men took over the ship, killing most on board. However, the more seasoned sailors were allowed to join the ranks of the disgraced duke.

Christine had finally damned him when one of his men found her the first night, hidden in the small chamber provided for her.

Braun had gotten to her in time before any real damage could be done. Even so, she really wondered if he had not damaged her, just a little. Yet another piece of her wounded soul seemed to fall away, fading away in the darkness of her being.

The man was killed, of course. But what he had done to her could never be changed. Braun had even professed his deepest apologies, but they mattered not to her. He had put a lock on her door and promised such a thing would never happen again.

The first hours after having been touched by that disgusting man Christine had cried, horrified at what had been done to her body. She could feel the filthy hands running over her, tearing the gown and pinning her down on the floor. She could feel the splinters of the floor ride into her back as he mounted her, fumbling with his dirty hoses. It hurt. Not just in her body, but in her soul as rough hands forced her limbs still.

Christine had cried harder after, feeling dirty, soiled and broken. He had never managed to rape her, but he had been close enough for it to feel real.

She had never known much about making love, only that it was a necessary process to conceive children. But now that she saw a glimpse of what it might entail, she abhorred it.

After a few days of constant crying, she found herself to be exhausted. There were no more tears; only that emptiness within her. She still wore the torn dress and her back was still scraped and ridden with thick and painful splinters.

That was how Braun had found her. She cared little for modesty as he walked in, not even bothering to cover up her bare legs or naked back as he closed the door behind him. Braun could not ignore the twinge of guilt that ran through his mind at the sight of her. It was first when he neared her bed that she made any movement to get away from him.

Christine's wide eyes looked at him. Pain and despair filled them, but the frown and hatred soon penetrated. Braun put up his hands as a gesture of well-meaning.

"I will not touch you, nor will I hurt you. I swear it on my life," he said as truthfully as he could. It caused Christine to sneer. She pushed the dirty locks away from her face.

"Your words mean little to me," she growled, her voice still shaking. She ignored the pain in her back. The splinters were causing some slight inflammation and Braun eyed them with concern. "As does your word of honor. I would never trust a traitor," she laced every word with venom, biting back the pain coursing through her back. Braun disregarded her words and caught view of her inflamed back.

"At least let me have someone tend to your wounds before they get worse," he said as he saw she was in visible pain. But she turned from him.

"Like you had that man of yours "tend" to me a few days back?" Christine tried to ignore the memory of him and looked away, hoping Braun couldn't see her moment of weakness. He said nothing, he did see the incident as unfortunate and a small twinge of guilt washed over him a second time. But he, a duke, would not go so low as to actually apologize to her.

"I will send someone over, whether you like it or not," Braun said haughtily, trying to gain dominance over the conversation again.

He turned to walk out of the room, not keen on being in her presence for too long. Braun knew he had made a brash decision in taking Christine Vega with him like that. He had been infuriated at the moment, only wanting to hurt Tristan Hawthorne. But now he saw that it had been a foolish mistake, something someone like Alistair would do.

"Tristan will find me." The words stung him more than they should have. Braun was surprised by the fire they held. He had always seen Christine like a frail little thing, but now he was unnerved by the raging fire shooting out of her lavender eyes.

"I hope he slaughters all of you when he comes." She ignored the hypocrisy in her words. To think that only a week earlier she had stopped her fiancé from killing Alistair and now Christine wished for nothing more than to see blood spilled. She ignored the violence that stirred within her.

Braun could not hide the smirk as he turned to face her. He had to bend down as the door-opening was so low.

"Hawthorne is dead, I killed him myself," he said. Braun could not help himself as satisfaction embedded itself deep within his being. Silence followed those words.

He could not read her face. Her expression froze before it turned cold. Christine felt her mouth go dry at Braun's words.

"That is not possible," she whispered in disbelief. Yet a small part of her questioned herself. "If you killed him it means you managed to overthrow the king…" she trailed off. "You wouldn't be running from Angloa." She tried to find logic in such a situation, never willing to accept Tristan's death.

"He sent for Lucius Chaeld to come with an army to the gates of Wessport. I had to flee, but I managed to slice him open before I did so," Braun lied. She could not find words as the hope of being saved slowly vanished within her.

"I do not know if you ever got to see his face. But if you didn't be glad for it. It was indeed a mess under that mask of his. I understand why he wore it now," Braun continued, the coldness in his voice sent shivers through Christine as she came to terms with her new reality.

 _February 22_ _nd_ _– Málaga_

The morning sprung alive in the Spanish port as a great many ships from all over Europe arrived at the harbor. Although it was February, the sky was clear, the temperature pleasant yet chilly and the sun warm. Its rays stretched far and wide, heating the bustling streets by the docks.

As they sailed in on the merchant ship, Lucius and Joseph watched in awe when the Alcázaba came in sight. The palatial fortification appeared so foreign and exotic to them. It stood on a hill, in the center of the city, overlooking the harbor—visible from the port itself. Trees surrounded the grand Moorish building, and it stood out like a rare jewel amongst the other buildings in the city.

Here seagulls cried out as they searched for fish that had been thrown out of the stalls. They would occasionally dive to steal some smaller fish when the vendors weren't looking.

The merchant ship docked and both Lucius and Joseph could not help but stare in awe at the unfamiliar sights and smells. Here trading ships unloaded their cargo to be sold to the highest bidder. Herbs, spices, metals, precious gems, fabrics, hides, and so on were packaged, inspected and placed on carts.

They went down to their quarters where they'd spent the last week as the ship had taken them from Wessport to the Iberian Peninsula. Lucius knocked softly on the door while Joseph waited outside.

"Come in," a weak voice said. Lucius opened the door, closing it behind him as he walked into the modest space.

On a small bed lay Tristan in a thin, white shirt and dark trousers, sweating profusely through his clothes. Even though the Mediterranean temperature was much milder than the cold, unfeeling winds of a snow-ridden Angloa, the air still held a chill to it.

"We have arrived," Lucius said as he went to sit beside the bed.

Tristan turned to face him. The whites of his eyes had a red tinge to them. The black mask did not show how the rest of his face looked, but Lucius could see—from the little skin showing around his eyes and mouth that he was pale. His lips held a purple tone and he was clammy. Tristan's breath was shallower than he would have liked.

"Good," was all the masked man could utter with difficulty. He had not even strength to lift his head from the pillow to stare out the small glass window that offered a view of the Spanish port. Lucius stared at him for a while, his lips in a thin line.

"How is the wound?" he asked, pointing at Tristan's shoulder. It was bandaged tightly. However, even though Braun's knife had been thin and small, it had left a deep wound. Since Tristan had rushed away with his friends after the battle at the palace—never bothering to properly care for the wound—it had become infected during the journey. The second night it had started to look red and irritated. Despite him trying to keep it clean, the tainted air on the ship did little to help. The third day it became inflamed, swelling up, turning into a painful obstacle for Tristan. He couldn't move his arm on the fourth day and on the sixth, puss started seeping from it. Joseph and Lucius grew worried. If it was left untreated, the infection would surely claim their friend.

"It's fine," Tristan lied, his usually strong and masculine voice now a mere whisper. He made no effort to confirm his words. His left hand still lay unmoving by his side and the fever had not gone down.

"It is not fine, Tristan," Lucius said as he voiced his concern. His baritone voice turned grave when he saw the man suffer. "As soon as we dock we must get you to a physician, they will—"

"We have no time, Lucius. Just buy some herbs in one of the merchant's stalls and I will apply it myself," Tristan argued. But he had scarcely any strength to go against Lucius. The other could not stand seeing his friend in such a wretched state.

"I will do no such thing. I will take you to someone myself if I have to," he continued. He would not lose Tristan in some foreign town, not now.

"I do not trust physicians here," Tristan argued. "And we must take the next ship to Rome, lest we lose track of Christine and Braun!" he exclaimed. In a delirious state, Tristan moved his arm a mere centimeter. A heartbreaking cry of pain escaped him as the wound was moved as well, the puss leaking through the bandage. Lucius said nothing at the evident discomfort of the other. He only sent his friend a glance saying "I told you so".

"We will help you off the boat and find a place where you can rest. You cannot go after Christine like this. We need you to have all your strength and wits about you if we are going to outsmart Braun," Lucius' baritone voice spoke. He never received an answer. Tristan's eyes flashed with contained anger, but he had no strength to argue.

It was soon that the ramps to the ship were laid so the people onboard could descend. Joseph and Lucius supported Tristan. They placed a long cape around him with a deep hood to shield his mask and integrity, to deter curious onlookers.

When the three had descended they stood in the middle of the harbor, the men, and women bustling around them as they took care of their affairs. Neither Lucius nor Joseph spoke any Spanish. They had also never been outside of Angloa and found themselves completely lost in that foreign city.

"Perhaps we should try to find an inn?" asked Joseph as they looked around like lost puppies.

"I do not see an inn here," Lucius said as he supported most of Tristan's weight. He nearly crumbled under the size of the wounded man that leaned against him. Tristan was barely lucid.

"We'll ask around." Joseph tried to remain positive, but the situation felt more and more dire by the minute.

"Ask for a _posada_ or a _taberna_ ," came a whisper from under the hood. Their concealed friend bit pack the fatigue and pain, fighting through the dizziness that followed.

Joseph built up the courage and went asking around. He did, of course, not understanding the answers he was given. But after a lot of patience and hand gestures the three of them wandered toward the center of the city until they found their destination.

The posada was situated on a busy and narrow street with whitewashed houses. Inside people sat eating food and drinking the local wine while they spoke in high voices. Joseph and Lucius kept widening their eyes at every turn, amazed by every new thing they saw. The innkeeper met them and started speaking a Spanish at an alarming speed that sent their minds spinning. All words were completely intangible as he kept sounding them out. He was shorter than them with black curly hair—not bothering to shave the small beard that was growing on his wide face. The nose was prominent—a Roman aquiline nose. It was proud, passionate and arrogant; like both men perceived the Spaniards to be.

Tristan managed to say some words in Spanish and the innkeeper quickly showed them to a room with two beds and a thin mattress on the hay-covered floor. He required immediate pay and kept glancing at the hooded man as he was lowered down on the bed, resting his heavy head against the pillows. When the innkeeper had left Joseph and Lucius looked just as lost as they had before.

"What now?" whispered Joseph to Lucius, sure that the older friend would have a grasp of the situation.

They stared around the dark room. The wooden beams in the roof were old, and the oak was dark. One corner held a small chair and table with a metal bowl. Outside they heard the busy pedestrians going about their business. Tristan's chest moved with effort as his breaths became all the more shallow.

"We have to find someone who can help him," Joseph insisted. Lucius agreed with a silent nod. But which physician could help with such a wound? Not even a king's doctor would be able to do much. Lucius knew well that those dedicated to healing often did more damage than good.

"There is a family here that I knew long ago," Tristan's faint voice spoke after a moment's silence. The sudden sound broke through the stillness in the chamber. Both men standing lent him their ears as he caught their attention.

"You lived here?" Lucius asked in disbelief.

Tristan ignored him and continued. "The father had some experience in medicine. I trust him."

"Where?"

"On the outskirts of the city," he trailed off. The large form gulped for air under the cape and hood, his head and arm thumping in the same rhythm. The sweat had soaked through his whole shirt and standing close they could feel the heat radiate from him. Lucius and Joseph exchanged worried glances. They had no doubt that the small move from the ship to the inn had endangered his situation. If he did not get help before the day was over they were worried they'd have to search for churchyard instead of a physician.

"I will go. You keep an eye on him," Lucius said as he patted Joseph on the shoulder. The younger man removed the cape and placed it on a shivering Tristan.

Lucius went to the door and glanced back. The directions he had gotten were little to go on as Tristan had lost lucidity once more. He would have to try as hard as he could though.

Lucius started searching for the road that led to the outskirts of the city—to the old quarters. It took him a while and a lot of patience. He received quite a lot of strange looks as he tried his best to ask for directions. Hand gestures got him around good enough. He even said some words in his very limited Latin—the Spaniards seemed to understand him well enough most times.

The blond Angloan arrived at a section of the city where fewer people frequented. The air was different as well, more loaded than before. The space between the houses stood narrower, to keep the rays of the sun away during summer no doubt. As he wandered the streets, he asked people if any of them knew Tristan Hawthorne. After what seemed hours Lucius was giving up hope.

He found a small fountain in a little plaza where he sat down. Somewhere a church bell rang, and the town seemed to have died down as the afternoon progressed. He guessed it was time for supper.

Lucius placed his head in his hands, staring in defeat at the cobblestones. How could they go after Christine when Tristan lay like an invalid on his deathbed? He feared the worst then. Lucius started playing the worst possible scenarios in his head. He had always known himself to be pessimistic and now was no different.

While his occupied mind wandered a boy came running after a kitten that tried to escape him. They boy couldn't have been older than twelve or thirteen and he was as thin as a twig. His skin was darker than those Lucius had seen around town. It had an olive tone to it. The black tresses were a mess and his eyes widened as he saw the strange blond man stare back at him by the fountain. Lucius thought he had nothing to lose and tried to ask the boy.

At first, the youngling kept away as he thought Lucius to be very strange. He had seen few foreigners in his life and, so, having someone so close was unnerving for the young Spaniard. Lucius started losing patience with the whole mission. The sun was already lowering on the sky, the once blue heavens now took an orange tone as the yellow orb started disappearing—taking its warmth with it.

But when he mentioned Tristan's name, the boy suddenly lit up with recognition—he knew Tristan Hawthorne. Lucius could not explain more for he did not speak the language. But the young boy took his hand and guided him through the labyrinth of narrow streets and allies until they stopped in front of a door. As he let himself be guided by the foreign boy, the young man's heart sped up with anticipation, perhaps this was it.

The houses of this street had a faded white tinge to the walls, the red brick that lay underneath had started showing through at some parts. The door was a horseshoe arch made up of different colored bricks of a very faded red and beige. The material was of delicate cedar, once probably strong and proud, now as faded as the rest of the doors in that particular part of town. He could see some window higher up in the structures with intricate details carved into the stone. The patterns that made up the window were destroyed in some parts. Yet, he saw a lantern hanging by it, lit now that the sun was descending.

The boy knocked hard on the wood and waited patiently. A small section of the door opened, a woman peeked through—a red veil covered her face, only allowing a view of dark enigmatic eyes. They boy said something and mentioned Tristan's name. The woman looked from the boy to Lucius and he saw a delicate black eyebrow raise on her tan forehead. But she let him in, ushering him in quickly and looking around the street, making sure no one had seen them.

Lucius walked into what he could only describe as the most ornate and exquisite courtyard he had ever seen. Whoever had lived in this house had once been rich and perhaps even an important person in society. But, as history would have it, the riches of the house and courtyard had faded, merely a whisper of what they used to be.

In the middle of the rectangular courtyard was a rectangular reflecting pool. On the bottom of the pool tiles and mosaic in intricate mathematical patterns could be seen through the clear water. Opposite them was a gallery organized by poly-lobed arches—something Lucius had never seen before. The symmetric arches had carvings in the light stone as well. He could see faded paint line the lower part of the columns, extending to the pillars that supported them. Beyond the gallery, he saw a stairway in stone leading to the second level. By the stairway, a horseshoe arched doorway opened up another room bathed in light. There was much greenery in the courtyard. Blooming flowers lined the columns and pool even thought they were at the end of February. The walls parallel to the pool held windows, and he saw some curious faces look through them and hastily retreat when he met the gazes.

The woman stared long at him. Now—in the light of the evening sun—Lucius could see the uncovered face of the cautious woman. She wore a dress in muted blues and reds, hugging her midsection and covering her arms and shoulders. A thin veil with fine embroidery was draped across her hair. The woman wore the graying hair away from her defined face. She looked Lucius up and down, frowning at his presence but tolerating it, nonetheless. Her severe voice spoke to the boy in a language that did not sound at all like Spanish. Her words were enough to send him away. She motioned for Lucius to follow her as she led him to the door at the end of the courtyard.

The room was high in roof; the interior sported the same style as the courtyard. Reds, yellows, blues, and copper were incorporated into the rich design. A low table sat in the middle and soft cushions in red with detailed silk embroidery had to be the seating, was all that Lucius could think of. He was sat down on one of them, surprised at the commodity they offered. He could sense the faint perfume of spices and oranges waft through the house. In one corner of the room stood a lonely orange tree in a big ceramic pot. The branches held small green fruits that would eventually mature into big, juicy oranges.

Suddenly, he heard steps, and the woman reappeared from the courtyard, followed by another woman. She wore similar clothes but was much younger. Lucius was completely taken by her beauty. Her raven hair peeked through the veil in soft curls—glossy and healthy. She had the same olive tone to her slightly tan skin. It looked soft and inviting to the now self-conscious man. Her eyes were what really intrigued him though. They were like nothing he had ever seen. She never dropped eye contact as she sat down opposite him on a cushion by the table. He stared into the dark depths. At first, he thought they were as black as the older woman's eyes. But, in the light of the many oil lamps that hung from the ceiling—suspended by thin chains—he saw a hint of green in them. Even from a distance, he could feel her sweet scent; spices, orange blossoms and something else he could not quite place. The woman frowned when it was clear that Lucius was staring at the younger woman—who could not have been over twenty.

"We bid you welcome to our house, sir." Her voice sounded more mature than she looked. Her accent was soft and welcoming, flowing like a sweet tune from her plump lips.

"You speak English?" was all Lucius could say after a pregnant pause. The question made her raise an inquisitive eyebrow.

"Of course," she answered matter-of-factly as if it had been evident. She took the initiative when Lucius made no effort to continue the conversation. He was still a stranger to the two women in front of him—lost in thought of what he had come for.

"I am Zoráida, this is my mother, Hala. The young boy you met was my brother, Ashiq," she drawled in her accent. Lucius had never before heard of such names. Even though he was familiar with Spain and the Spaniards, he never knew of them having such names. But slowly the wheels in his mind started turning. They were north of the city, still close to the center but it was clear that the Spaniards did not frequent this area. The people in front of him were not Christians he realized then—or they were newly converted. It should have been evident from the start, but Lucius had been too preoccupied with admiring the surroundings to ever take note.

"Well met, Miss Zoráida, Mrs. Hala," Lucius said awkwardly as he nodded to both women. Hala continued to frown at him.

"My brother said you were speaking of Tristán," she said, pronouncing Tristan's name with a Spanish accent.

"I am. He is here, in Malaga," Lucius explained, getting straight to business. Zoráida's eyes lit up at the mention of Tristan's presence.

"Oh, then he must come for it has been very long since we last saw him," she said, smiling for the first time. Lucius' heart jumped a beat at her smile as it lit up her whole face. It did not seem as strict as it had before. It became softer, more feminine.

"That is why I am here. Tristan is wounded, and he sent me here because he believes you can offer him medical care," he continued. The truth was that Lucius had no idea how any of these women would be able to help Tristan. But then again, it was his masked friend who had been in Spain before; who knew of the country and its ways. So Lucius didn't question it and trusted Tristan instead.

Zoráida's smile faded as a painful memory seemed to surface. Hala noticed how her daughter seemed subdued by what Lucius had said. She asked her what they were talking about. When Zoráida explained Hala seemed to recall the same painful memory.

"Tristán must have been speaking of my father, for he was indeed a great healer," Zoráida began. "But he cannot help him now." Her words were stiff and short as if she did not wish to recall her father.

"Why not?" Lucius asked urgently. "Tristan has an infected wound on his shoulder that needs acute care now or he will not last the night, I am sure of it."

The young woman's enigmatic eyes stared right into Lucius' clear ones, cutting into his very soul. It was almost as if she held a spell over him.

"My father is dead," she said finally, the tension rising at every moment. With those words, the hope of helping Tristan seemed less and less likely. She noticed how the foreigner in front of her despaired at her words. "But worry not, I learned much from my father before he passed. I will come with you and help Tristán."

"You?" He could not help himself as the words escaped his mouth. Even though Hala did not speak English, she understood what he meant from the tone in his voice. Zoráida just eyed him defiantly. The dark greens in her endless eyes seemed to gleam dangerously as she stuck her chin out, challenging him to question her again.

"You will show me to Tristán," she said. The young beauty exchanged some brief words with her mother who clearly seemed opposed to the ordeal. But Zoráida ignored her.

"Very well," Lucius agreed. He hoped the girl knew what she was doing. He had never heard of women being physicians before. A small part of him wondered if Zoráida might use more than herbs and ointments to heal. The prejudice of a woman healer being tied to a witch briefly touched his mind. But Tristan had little time and Lucius had nowhere else to turn.

The women guided him out to the courtyard again. He watched as it was bathed in the dying rays of the sun. It transformed the space. The pool reflected the orange heavens just like the walls with strange inscriptions running along their edges.

Hala grimaced at Lucius the whole time he stood contemplating the alien courtyard. He had never seen such exquisite and symmetrical architecture before. Even though faded—having drifted back with the sands of history, it could not compare—to Lucius, with what he had seen in Angloa. Perhaps it was the style of the architecture, the novelty, that set him off.

"My brother, Ashiq, will accompany us," she said, sneaking up behind him. The sudden nearness of the young woman made Lucius jump slightly. He had not noticed her as she neared him. The boy stood waiting by the cedar door, a serious look was plastered over his face. Zoráida carried a small green sack that rested diagonally across her concealed frame.

"Fair enough," Lucius agreed. It would be safer to have the boy walk the girl home after she was done with Tristan.

Zoráida said her goodbyes to her mother and soon they were off to the inn. The siblings remained silent the whole way there. They would occasionally pass people coming back from the fields or the harbor as the day came to an end. Both the girl and boy would cast their gazes to the ground, avoiding eye contact as much as possible. They had stepped out of their protected home and walked into another world. Although the boy could have passed for just any other boy on the street, Zoráida drew in more attention to her deep eyes, slightly darker skin and style of clothing.

They arrived at the inn while the first darkness of the night wrapped tightly over Malaga. Torches had been lit on the streets and she spoke to him in a hushed voice to sneak her and her brother in via the

He looked around for a back door in the dark, feeling nervous as he feared being discovered at any time. For some reason, he felt like he was sneaking in a lover into his home while avoiding his parents. Lucius snickered at himself—he was a grown man. Such things should not bother him.

He finally found a clear way to get into the inn. The inside was lively as more and more people streamed in to get some wine or beer after a hard day's work. The innkeeper was too busy serving them to notice as the trio came in through the back way and quietly went up the stairs. Lucius blocked the view of the siblings if anyone happened to look up at the stairs at that moment.

Joseph was pacing back and forth in the small space as he kept sending worried glances Tristan's way. The fever had kept going up since Lucius had left and at moments his breath would stop briefly until it came back—uneven and shallow.

A soft knock sounded on the door; someone checked to see if it was unlocked. Joseph pushed his ear against it and was thankful when he heard Lucius on the other side. He unlocked the heavy door and three people rushed in.

Joseph's eyes grew into saucers at the sight of Zoráida and Ashiq. He sent Lucius a questioning glance, an eyebrow rising high on his forehead. But he never questioned the peculiar siblings directly.

The young girl's eyes searched the poorly lit room until she found Tristan's large form sprawled on the bed, sleeping. She cast away the shawl and rushed to his side, kneeling by his left shoulder and taking his gloved hand carefully in hers. A pained expression lit in her face as she saw the state he was in.

"Tristán?" she called with a soft voice, another hand sneaked up to his face and caressed it carefully. Tristan stirred at the touch and opened his eyes. It took him a while to gain lucidity. A face he could not place hovered above him, outlined by the dim light in the crowded room.

"Zoráida…" he trailed off, the voice merely an echo of what it used to be. He smiled as he recognized her. His right hand came to take her own, and he squeezed it gently. It was clear to Lucius and Joseph that the two had known each other for a long while.

"I see you haven't changed," she said as she scolded, her eyes gliding over his weary form. It coaxed a laugh from the man that he immediately regretted as it caused severe pain in his shoulder.

"You English has gotten better," he murmured after he recovered. She began digging in the green sack, letting go of his hands.

"I had a good teacher," Zoráida said as she kept digging. She placed several clean bandages and various packets of herbs, bottles of foreign liquids and metal instrument on the nightstand next to him. The young woman took some small scissors and cut open the white, soaked shirt to better access the wound.

"Where is Musa, your father?" he asked as he looked around the room, not finding what he sought. A shadow stretched over Zoráida's face as she gently plied the bandage away from the wound, grimacing at the puss seeping out. Joseph and Lucius sat down by the other bed in the room, silently watching them in the dim light. Ashiq looked away at the mention of his father's name.

"He died," she said, her full lips turning thin. Zoráida cleaned the wound, trying to keep herself occupied. The news sent Tristan's mind spinning.

"How could that be? What happened when Sofia and I left?" he asked, raising his head as the urgency in his voice grew. He was too weak, and it plopped right back down. He clenched his right fist as she touched the wound. Zoráida never answered his question, instead, she motioned for Lucius and Joseph to come to their side.

"Hold him down." Zoráida placed them each on one side of the masked man. Lucius put a hand against Tristan's right shoulder and arm while Joseph stood by Tristan's left side, holding him down by his left arm and chest—mindful of never touching the open cut.

"I want you to bite down on this, lest you injure yourself more," Zoráida said as she gave him a small piece of wood to bite down on. Tristan did as she bade, knowing well what followed. Zoráida needed to clean the cut as she had seen her father do so many times before; by pouring alcohol over it. He knew the pain would be unbearable due to the severe infection, and he only hoped it wouldn't last. She sent him an apologetic look as she uncorked the flask with the clear liquid.

"Make sure he doesn't move, or it will aggravate the wound," Zoráida instructed, receiving stiff nods from both men as they looked down at their friend. Even in such a state, Tristan kept a stoic air of indifference, trying not to be bothered by such a situation. Zoráida let the alcohol flow freely. Time moved slower as the liquid escaped the bottle, gracefully making its way to the irritated shoulder. When the first drop made contact with the infected skin, Tristan felt as if his flesh was burning off. Against his will, he tensed while the alcohol bore deep into the wound, cleaning and cleansing his shoulder. Joseph and Lucius had to put all their weight on the limbs. Even though he was weak, Tristan put up quite the resistance. He bit down as hard as he could on the wood, trying to fight the pain. But the more she poured into the wound, the more he lost grip over himself.

When she had finished cleaning the wound—removing the puss with a clean cloth soaked in more alcohol—she proceeded to place herbs that would lessen the infection. She could not yet sew it shut. They would have to wait until the next day and see how it healed. She bandaged it in white linen strips washed in vinegar. Now they had to wait. Tristan let out a weak breath as the worst part was over. She removed the piece of wood.

"Drink this," Zoráida said as she uncorked another flask with a dark amber liquid in it. He grimaced at it, for he had tasted the very same medicine years earlier from Musa; Zoráida's father. He knew how vile it tasted. "Tristán, you will drink it or I will force you to drink it," she ordered angrily as she recognized the look in his eyes. Joseph and Lucius had to hold in some chuckles despite themselves. She looked like a mother scolding her child. He opened the mouth and closed his eyes, grimacing through the mask as the medicine slid down his throat.

"Will he be alright?" asked Joseph after she went to sit next to the bed. Even though the wound still stung, Tristan could feel the invasive herbs taking effect. He still had a fever, but he knew the medicine would take care of it.

"We will have to wait until the morning. If the infection goes down, I will sew the wound shut," Zoráida explained. "After that, it is up to Tristán." She glanced over, giving him a knowing glance.

"How did Musa pass away?" came the question again. It took them all off guard as they had expected the masked man to have slumbered into a deep sleep. Instead, he looked at them with his deep blue eyes, catching the sorrowful gaze of Zoráida. She sighed and turned to face him. Ashiq looked down the window, observing the lively street outside of the inn. He listened to the brawls and tune of a spontaneous guitar as laughter escaped the confinements of the _sala_ where the customers drank and ate away. The merriment did not seem to fit the gloomy air that now expanded throughout their little room.

"The Inquisition took him," Zoráida said silently after a while.

"They took Hakim too," Ashiq added silently in Spanish by the window—his English only limited to some form of understanding.

Tristan grew cold at those words. Both Musa, father of Zoráida, and Hakim, her brother, had been good friends when he had lived briefly in southern Spain for some years. Sofia and he had even lived with the family for a few weeks upon their arrival in Malaga.

"But you converted, nothing to me indicated that you would have—"

"It doesn't matter if we did or not, to the inquisition we were still _mudéjares_ ; still moors. We represent the past and they will use any excuse to cast us all out. It doesn't matter if we convert, they only call us _moriscos_ then. We will never be one of them, even if our family has lived on these lands for centuries," Zoráida said heatedly.

"What are mudéjares and moriscos?" asked Joseph, voicing the curiosity that Lucius felt as well.

"All they received was a harsh glance from both Tristan and Zoráida, indicating that it was a story for another time. Zoráida looked back at Tristan, taking one gloved hand in hers, squeezing it gently. Despite their situation, she was glad to see him again.

"You will have to rest in this bed for at least a few days more and then rest your left shoulder and arm for another few weeks. When you start using it again, you must be wary. The wound was deep and if you put too much weight on it, it could easily reopen and get infected again," she explained.

"Tomorrow you will sew it shut and then we take the next ship to Rome," Tristan said, determined to not waste any more time than necessary.

Zoráida frowned at his words while she packed away her equipment.

"Why do you wish to sail for Rome?" Tristan's lips turned into a thin line, not too keen on answering her.

"His fiancée has been kidnapped, and we have set out to rescue her," Joseph explained, oblivious to the rising tension in the room.

"Fiancée, eh?" Zoráida mumbled. There was a moment of uncertainty—of how she would react. Alas, soon a sad smile touched her lips, her eyes locking with his. "If you manage to save her, I wish to meet her. It would be interesting to see the woman who managed to ensnare the heart of Tristán Hawthorne."

 **A/N: I hope you enjoyed this first chapter. Some quick notes. Most of southern Spain was under moorish rule for several hundred years. It played a great part on forming the Spain we know today.**

 **Mudéjares = a muslim during the Christian reconquest of the Iberian Peninsula.**

 **Moriscos = a moor in Spain converting to Christianity.**

 ***The last true moorish kingdom (taifa) was Granada and it feel to the reconquest in 1492.**


	2. Chapter 2

**WHISPERS OF THE PAST**

 _Chapter 2_

 _November 21st, 1454_

The cold, relentless days grew shorter as autumn left the island, leaving the way for the snow and ice. Cadherra saw winter nearing as the mountaintops had already turned white some weeks ago. The nobles and royals kept inside Adelton Hall as the fires in the grand chimneys were lit. Lavish parties were held by the monarch and his doting wife. It was a way to keep the aristocrats occupied during the dark nights-when stepping foot outside the castle was not an option.

But, what the king enjoyed the most, was spending quality time with his family.

His quick steps brought him from the throne room to his chambers, eager to see his spouse and child after a long and tedious day. The assemblies always drained him of energy, for his advisers never seemed to agree on anything.

When the monarch arrived at his quarters, he was caught by surprise as a small boy jumped right into an embrace.

"Father!" the youngling said, the little time they had been separated had been too much for the boy who admired his father so. Philip let out a small chuckle and looked to the corner of the vast chamber where the queen, his wife, sat reading by candlelight.

"Were you bored without me, Edmund?" he asked.

"Mother does not wish to play. She only reads," the young prince said, wrinkling his nose. His auburn hair tousled and fell into wide blue eyes. Marianne looked up from her book and smiled mischievously. Her dark blonde tresses fell in small waves around her face—the silky curls long and luscious. She looked lovingly at the scene of her son and husband playing.

Marianne Urdun was the daughter of Duke Jeremiah Urdun, lord of the north. Their marriage had been a political one at first where Philip—then the prince—had sought to ask for her hand to stabilize the power in the country.

Marianne put aside her book and went to her husband, letting him embrace her and plant a kiss on her front. Outside the frosted window, bathing in the silver beams of the moon, big snowflake floated down to cover the meadow bellow the castle. The lights from Hayes were obscured as the snowfall grew thicker—the winter winds gently coaxing the flakes to dance in the silence of the night.

She whisked something hidden from her wide sleeve, giving it to him as a sly smile spread across her fair features. It was a sketch, a small portrait that had been framed in light cedar wood and outlined in gold leaf. The sketch was formidable and the very likeness of Philip. Even though he had had many portraits made of him as he took the crown, they all showed the king, not the man. But this portrait was humane, showing another side to the king, more toned down, more caring and patient. Truth shone in his eyes; truth, and understanding.

"You have seen 39 winters, my love. I cannot give you much for I know you care little for gold or riches, so I give you this," Marianne said as she pushed the small portrait into his hands.

"A gift?" Philip asked bewildered. He stared at the face on the parchment as if he were staring into a mirror. Edmund reached for the sketch, for the eager child wanted to see as well.

"Remember our trip last summer to the Italian peninsula? I had that young painter you liked so much draw a sketch of you," she smiled, pleased that her husband liked her present.

"Bellini," he remembered. Philip looked at it again and his cold body turned warm at the memory of their early summer spent on the coast of the peninsula. It had been a brief visit to get away from their secluded island. He had gone through Rome and later up north. Marianne had come with him. Magnus had stayed in Angloa, taking care of matters of the court while Philip took a break from being king. He was allowed some weeks of freedom and peace that court could not offer him.

He gently pried away the picture from his son as Marianne went to pick up the young boy. "I shall always treasure it." Philip put it with care on the table next to their wide bed. "As I treasure and love you both," he said huskily, going in for a loving kiss.

 _March 16_ _th_ _, 1459—Wessport_

"You have to keep him steady, Edmund!" came the powerful voice of the monarch as he watched his son on the horse. The young prince let out a heartwarming laugh as the beige stallion took an eager jump forward, happy to be running on the meadow.

Philip, Magnus, Marianne and some courtiers attended their first picnic of the year. The snows had melted a week ago and the last few days had been uncommonly warm. Some flowers had already sprouted, not that usual for that time of year. Philip had decided that it was time to get out of the constricting castle walls. He took one look around him and felt his heart swell at the warming sight of his family.

The king sighed at his luck. Nothing could compare to what he felt when he saw the joy spread on his wife's face as she conversed with one of her ladies-in-waiting. Nor would he change anything for the laughter his son emitted as he sat astride the cheerful stallion. The eager horse carried him in circles around the meadow bellow the castle. A pageboy ran at his side, keeping a steady hand on the animal so that it would not run away with the prince.

Philip's and Magnus' gazes crossed for a brief moment where both saw in their eyes the unexplainable love and joy they held for that moment. Magnus had married only a few weeks earlier, to a modest beauty from a northern region named Rebecca Trienne. She was already with child. When Philip saw his brother, his heart swelled. He felt pride then as well.

But it seemed a balance needed to be kept in that joyful splendor that was his life. Where Philip found happiness, worry and trouble soon followed. The early spring day turned darker as a new presence made itself known to him.

"Your Majesty," came the harsh and slow voice from his left. Philip turned around to see one of his advisors, someone he did not care much for. Lord Adam Flannigan had been sitting on his father's council and he was a powerful man best not trifled with.

"What is it, Adam," the king muttered. He did not hide the despise he held for the Lord. He had presented trouble ever since Philip's father's reign. The old lord was vicious and selfish at his best. He rarely took action unless it would benefit him. Philip was grateful that the old man had no children—no pesky heirs that would keep their father's bothersome presence in his life.

"I hear you have yet to give an answer considering our proposal on moving court," Flannigan said haughtily.

"I am yet to decide, my lord." Philip turned around. "But I can promise you that it will not be New London." There was almost a hint of malice lacing the monarch's voice. Lord Flannigan was from New London—where he held powerful connections. Philip had no wish to move court where he would give the old lord a more powerful playing-ground. Adam seemed irritated by the answer, but whatever other emotions had surfaced he kept in check. His hazel eyes squinted as he continued speaking.

"You should at least bring it up today during the council meeting. We all know Cadherra is not a suitable place to hold court," he said, almost daringly.

"My father seemed to think so. Are you saying my father—the late king—was wrong?" Philip asked, enjoying the flustered look growing on the old man's face as he questioned him.

"Of course not, Your Majesty, I deeply respected your father—may his soul rest in peace. But when his life started reaching its end, even _he_ realized that he could have moved court to a more strategic place," Adam said.

Philip frowned, his relaxing morning had been ruined then, for thoughts of the court and his kingdom corrupted his mind. All he wanted was some time with his family.

"I will consider it during this meeting. But nothing is definite yet," Philip said and thus concluding their conversation. Adam understood the cue and swiftly moved away.

* * *

 _February 24_ _th_ _, 1520 – Málaga_

He was awoken by the light tapping of a windowpane. The curtains were drawn back as the fresh morning air seeped into the room. Tristan opened his eyes and was met by a blue sky, not a cloud in sight.

His first thought was the chill that came in through the window. But it was not unpleasant. The wind felt good on his naked skin—it made him feel alive. He moved his head away from the window and stared at the ceiling. Tristan's blue eyes scoured the rustic beams, observing a spider building its web, preparing its trap for any flies that would enter the room. But it was futile, he thought—the day was still too cold for flies. The spider would have to wait a bit more—until the warmth of the sun reached the earth.

He was disoriented at first. The shirt he wore was still slightly wet from the previous night's sweat, making him shiver slightly at the chill in the room. His limbs ached to move and as he did so, Tristan felt a dull ache in his left arm and shoulder. It was nowhere near the pain he had felt the previous night and it indicated that the severity of the infection was slowly dying away. He would heal, but not fast enough.

The masked man rested his head against the pillow, giving up on leaving his bed—for now. Instead, he opened his ears. For if he could not look out the window, he could at least listen; to the people walking on the streets, to the chatter of the Spaniards. A twinge of nostalgia washed over him. He had lived here with Sofia once, a long time ago. Tristan had been but a commoner during that time, but he'd taken the burdens of much more. Seven years seemed a lifetime to him.

The door creaked open slowly as a head peeked in. Zoráida went gracefully to his side and sank down next to Tristan as she saw that he was finally awake.

"How long have I slept?" his voice croaked. It was stiff from lack of use and there was till weakness in it. Zoráida's hands went to his shoulder, and they pushed aside the thin cotton shirt. She started removing the bandages, steadily, setting into a rhythm as she worked.

"It is midday. We did not wish to wake you," the young woman explained the words rolled off her tongue, and she sounded like Sofia when she spoke.

"Joseph, Lucius and Ashiq?" he asked as he looked around the room, noticing for the first time that they were absent.

"I sent them with my brother to go see the city. They were getting restless." She drew away the final bandage and revealed the open wound. The swelling had gone down considerably and there was no new formation of puss. Zoráida released the breath she'd been holding. When she had arrived with Lucius the previous night, the young woman had feared for Tristan's life, certain that he would not last the night. She was glad that she was wrong.

As she continued taking care of him, her eyes went up and down, looking at a friend who had changed much since they had last met. He had been a young man then, just out of his teen years. He had been tall and lean, still growing into his limbs—they had been too long and his step awkward. Seven years seemed to have done him good when it came to his physique. He was as tall as ever, but through his soaked and torn shirt she saw lean muscle—a defined torso and arms. His countenance had changed as well. He was no longer the hothead with the temper of a fury, who would get into fights, to get away from the stigma his mask held. Last time she met him, he had arrived from the east with a gypsy.

"Where is Sofia?" she asked casually as she slowly started removing the herbs from the wound and cleaning it once more with alcohol.

"We went our separate ways a few months ago. I do not know where she went after that." Tristan grimaced at the memory of Sofia. He missed her—every moment of being in such a familiar place reminded him of her. Zoráida's caring hand came to rest on his arm.

"You will see her again, if Allah wills it," she reassured him. Her words made him smile.

"You still don't talk like a Christian," he scolded. "I thought you said you and your family converted."

A sad smile spread on her plump lips. To Tristan, the young girl he once knew had grown up to be a fine woman and there was a certain sadness that her situation held.

"My family did convert, but we can never leave centuries of traditions behind. I trust you, I will not pretend here, Tristán," Zoráida said, turning serious as she placed a thin needle with tongs over a lit candle before drenching it in alcohol. She placed the thread in the clear liquor as well.

"Is that why your father was taken by the inquisition? Because they unmasked you?" A stiff silence followed as she waited for the needle to cool down. Somewhere a bird chirped, landing on the windowsill—looking around for some food it might steal. When it found none, it flew away.

"No. Even if we remain true to our roots in our hearts, we try to blend in as much as possible. We go to mass like the rest of you, I even sneak in a confession here and there," she said, threading the needle, preparing to prick it into his skin. She spoke openly with Tristan, knowing he would not judge her. Zoráida knew that he had never been one to follow religion tediously or blindly like so many others. He had been accepting of her family's way of life. She always felt a sense of peace as a child, knowing she did not have to act whenever she'd be in his presence.

"Is this what you must suffer, for the love you possess for this land?" he asked, looking at her dark eyes as she started sewing. He ignored the small stabbing pain of the needle as it plunged into his skin.

"This city fell to the Christians many decades ago. I have never known anything else but this; living in secrecy, afraid that every day will be my last." A church bell rang somewhere in the distance—a lone bell that sounded once. It ripped through their conversation like a dagger ripping through fabric. "You will understand, to some degree," she said after the bell had died down, nodding at the mask.

"I hide my face to spare everyone the sight of it," he muttered, a hiss escaping him as the needle plunged deeper than Zoráida intended.

"You once told me that when I was old enough, you'd show me your face."

"Don't change the subject, continue with what you were saying. I like hearing your stories," he argued as if scolding a sister. Tristan felt fatigue rush over him as he settled back into the fluffy pillows.

"They're not stories, Tristán," she retorted angrily. A fiery passion bubbled under the surface, something that had not gone away since her childhood.

"You know what I mean," his dark voice spoke.

"Málaga was taken when my parents were young, I'm certain my father told you all about it when you were here," she continued.

"It was all Musa would ever talk about," Tristan sighed, remembering the light that shone in his old friend's eyes as he spoke of another era, another time. "He said that he frequented Granada under the reign of Boabdil."

"He would tell me stories as well, every night before bed," she lamented as she sewed monotonously. They both turned silent as they remembered the past, a past that now seemed foreign to them. The world was slowly changing into something new, something they had never seen before and they did not know what to make of it.

"Why was he killed?" Tristan insisted. Knowing why a great and kind man like Musa had been executed by the inquisition would give the masked man closure after finding out about his death.

Zoráida hesitated as her hands froze mid-air. She let her dark green eyes wander over to meet his blue ones. They waited for her answer, for her to reveal what she had been trying to ignore since the loss of Musa.

"He was a great physician. But whenever he failed to cure a patient, he would be blamed for it. Even if the illness was great or the wounds deep—it did not matter. So a few years ago my father decided to retire. But one night a wealthy merchant came running to our house, saying his pregnant wife was dying. My father went with him, alone, and did all he could to save the woman and child, but it was no use, they both died. The merchant blamed my father and said that he killed them deliberately because they were Christian and therefore my father must hate them. The inquisition got wind of these accusations and came one night, taking him with them. They said they just had some questions and that he would most likely be back in the morning. But he never returned." Zoráida spoke with a strange detachment as she gently guided the needle, slowly closing the wound on his shoulder.

"They tortured him for days, or so they told my mother. He died after his heart gave out on the third day, the pain was too overwhelming for him," she whispered. An empty look spread in her eyes as something akin to hatred emerged from it. "I hope those priests end up in a similar situation someday so that they will feel the same pain they inflicted on him." Her jaw squared and her voice shook slightly as the words shot like arrows from her mouth.

"There is a saying in the east," Tristan began, his own thoughts grim after having heard of Musa's demise. "They believe that whatever you do—good or bad—it comes back to you." There was a slight pause as he let the meaning sink in. "I am sorry to hear what happened, Musa never deserved such treatment. He was one of the best men I ever knew," Tristan said, watching intently as she finished stitching his wound and proceeded to put an herbal paste on it.

"I hope that saying is true," she murmured softly, placing clean bandages over the wound. She was satisfied with her work and used it to push away the recent feelings of sadness and nostalgia that had emerged.

Both wallowed in the other's company. They felt like children, unaware of the world around them, protected by their innocence.

"I hear you are chasing after your fiancée," Zoráida whispered as she stared out the window, the song of the seagulls turned louder as the day continued its mellow pace.

"I wish to set sail tomorrow or the day after. I…must find her," he said trough gritted teeth. Zoráida felt him tense next to her. Determination and a hint of fear reflected in the way he held himself. She did not ask the specifics. Tristan had never been the one for explanations or long conversations, especially not when it came to his own personal life.

"I never thought you the marrying type," she continued. His masked head snapped up from the pillow, his eyes looking intently at her.

"You knew me when you were thirteen, how much could you have perceived then?"

"The mask only hides your face, but it cannot hide who you are—or were. You have greatly changed, Tristán. But I also saw what you were; a free soul, searching to flee the constrictions that society would put on you. That is why you stayed with Sofia—that is why the mask tormented you so. I never thought anyone would manage to tie you down."

When she had known him, he and Sofia would travel from town to town, province to province, country to country. They never stayed for long. Tristan would speak of his travels to her, speak of the wonders he had seen in France, Portugal, Italy and, even, North Africa. But her favorite stories were when he told her about the Far East, about a monastery he had spent the better part of his teenage years. He spoke of men with amazing fighting abilities, of a way of life very different to what he had seen in Europe. He spoke of philosophers and warriors.

Tristan remembered back on that time as well. When he had first met Sofia, she had taken him east, to the Ming Kingdom. Far up in the mountains, an old acquaintance of hers gave them hospice and the young boy was taught and trained with the rest of the students his age at the monastery. When he became older, they would frequent a large neighboring city and he made friends with an old retired general who lent him heaps of tomes about the art of war. Through sheer curiosity and will, Tristan would read those books day and night, having heated discussions with his friend who was amused that such a young boy would be interested in strategy. But, in the end, his studying had served him well.

"She is just a woman I am to marry, Zoráida," Tristan muttered.

"No, she is much more than that, or you wouldn't blindly chase after her in such a state."

"I _care_ for her, yes. I made a promise, I gave my word to her that I would return to her, and I do not plan on breaking that word."

Zoráida scoffed at his weak explanation. "You cannot lie to me, Tristán. I see that there is more than care in your heart. For you to sacrifice the freedom you have guarded for so many years means she must be more to you."

 _February 25_ _th_

There came a moment where Christine could no longer move due to her back. She continued resting on her bed, never moving a muscle when Braun came to check on her. Her eyes would wander to the thick glass windows that stared at the never-ending sea.

Tristan was dead.

The thought hurt more than she could bare. Christine felt how she slipped, how she stopped caring about everything. At first, she had fought against it—the only fuel was her hatred for Braun. But soon she embraced it. Her mother would live out her life well in Adelton Hall—the only person left that she truly cared for was safe and it was all that mattered.

It was morning when Braun entered her quarters, the golden rays of the sun gliding across her face, warming her features. Behind him entered the ship's barber and physician. The man was barely a physician, he was a barber that had found an easy job working at ships with a decent pay and housing. When he saw the blonde young woman sprawled on the bed, her back and shoulders bare where her beige dress had been torn, his eyes widened. Christine's eyes locked with his for a moment as he neared her, but she made no move to turn away from him.

"I've been sent by his lordship, miss," he said nervously, feeling the intense stare of Braun on his back. She never answered him.

The barber sat down next to her and viewed the damage. He could remove the splinters, but there was little he could do for the infection. As he explained this to Braun, Christine stared at the rolling waves, letting herself be calmed by the motions they made. She was surprised when two rough hands started removing the embedded splinters. The young woman screamed out in pain as the hands forcefully plied away the pieces of wood.

When all was done, she let out a painful breath of air, biting back tears of pain that threatened to spill. The wounds had reopened and droplets of blood spilled from them. The barber frowned at the sight.

"She will need a real physician, my lord. I cannot treat these wounds as they should be treated here." He turned to face Braun and gathered new courage. "We should dock in the nearest harbor and search for someone there," he said.

"The nearest port is Malaga. That damned storm a few days ago set us off course," Braun murmured pensively. He looked at Christine's small form and his brows furrowed with slight worry. He did not wish to lose her to infection. Sleepless nights of worrying and thinking had finally given him an answer; he had other plans for her. "Let us dock there then," he decided, almost as if on a whim. The barber nodded and scurried away, leaving the two alone.

As soon as the door closed, Braun came over with a bowl of fresh water and some clean cloths.

"Keep still," the older man murmured as he plunged the white cloth into the cold water and then carefully cleaned the reopened wounds. She shuddered at the cold touch and gritted her teeth. Christine never showed her face, for the disgust it held at having Braun so near would be evident.

"I never meant for this to happen to you," he muttered softly, relishing in the sight of her lithe body. Braun could not help his hungry eyes wander over her form—she would do just fine, he thought. Christine did not believe in his words of comfort.

"Is the mighty Lord Braun apologizing?" she spat, flinching as she moved to look him. Christine fought hard to keep a mask of indifference when she saw dark eyes drill into hers. His thinning brown hair fell into his thin face, over his high forehead. He had found time to trim his goatee despite their situation. He looked as polished as she remembered him to be. Braun never answered her, instead he let out a dry laugh.

The disgraced lord put away the metal bowl and cloth and turned to leave. "Rest. I shall have someone take care of that back of yours," he reassured her.

When the door closed Christine let her head fall down. She bit her lip and moved around on the bed, fighting to sit up—a feat she couldn't accomplish for the last few days. She took the bowl and cloth, taking a part of the white fabric that was not stained with her blood—that was clean—and started washing her skin. It felt good when the cool water came in contact with her flesh.

Her heart clenched in a painful way as thoughts of Tristan popped into her mind. She knew of her care for the masked man, of how much she enjoyed his company. She never knew her care had grown so much. Now that they were parted—never to be seen again, Christine confessed to herself that she had grown to like Tristan, in her own way. She admired him, even though he was arrogant and frightening at times. The fact that the man she had kissed—the man who had promised to come back to her was dead ripped her heart open.

Christine had never felt heartbreak before. She had read about it, heard about it, and even seen it. Never had the young woman expected it would be so painful; mentally and physically.

During the day it was easy to distract herself, listening to the men above deck, shouting, talking, and singing. But not during the long hours of the night. When the ship turned quieter than a graveyard in the early hours of the morning, she could not help as images of her fiancé's body slipped into the crevices of her mind. She imagined he lay on the cold palace floor, alone and ignored. She saw an unmasked face—twisted and disfigured, leaving him in shame. His face had been something he'd guarded for so long.

But, soon, another voice in her mind scolded her. How could she do this to herself? How could she be so pathetic? Yes, Tristan, the man she had grown to like so was dead, he was gone. But she was alive, her mother was alive, Angloa was safe—thanks to Tristan. There was something to return to. And what was more important, she found that she wanted to carry on, not for her father or her mother or even her country. No. This time it was different: Christine wanted to live for herself.

As she washed away the dirt and blood, she washed away her indetermination and fears. They were replaced by stronger, more determined feelings. Her eyes wandered to the glass windows that looked out over the vast ocean. Christine Vega would not give up. The young woman decided that whatever Braun had in store for her she would bear it— because she trusted herself. Because, beyond that horizon, something awaited her.

 _February 27_ _th_

"We have already wasted enough time. A ship sails for Rome later today and I want to board it," Tristan said through gritted teeth. He lay in the confinements of the small chamber, Zoráida paid little heed as she looked over the stitches and reapplied more herbs to the area.

Lucius sat in the small, uncomfortable chair and scratched his head. He knew Tristan was right, they had spent too much time in Malaga. If they wanted to see Christine again, they would have to leave soon. Joseph lay on the other bed, sleeping with his mouth open, a slight snore escaping now and then; he was exhausted. The young man had spent the whole night awake, first walking Zoráida and Ashiq home, then getting lost in the narrow streets. He had after returned in defeat, letting his shoulders sink further down as Lucius asked him to fetch the young Morisco girl.

"You have grown more impatient since I last saw you," the young woman muttered, bandaging the shoulder. "But I guess it cannot be helped. You have a duty and a word to keep," she continued, staring off into the distance. The wound would be fine, Tristan could have left the previous day. Yet, she had asked him to stay. He reminded her of her past, of a time she had been happy—when her father and older brother had been alive. The masked man recognized the look in her eyes and his own expression turned grim. Lucius read the eyes of his friend and got up from the chair. He went over to wake Joseph. It was time to leave the city.

"We will wait for you outside, Tristan," he said, motioning for Ashiq to come. They were soon left alone and for the first time, Zoráida grew shy around him. She had always known what to say, how to look at him. Now she found no words. The reality was that he would leave. Tristan had no wish to stay with her or her family—as was expected.

"I hope you find the happiness that has escaped you for so long." She placed a hand on his masked face. "I hope you will be able to discard this prison you live in and truly be free, Tristán." Her words of wisdom drifted by him like a distant wind, stirring something that he always tried to ignore. How could such a young woman understand so much just by looking into his eyes?

"When we return, you should come with us, Zoráida. You and your whole family can live in peace in Angloa. No one will bother you under my roof," he said, ignoring words that rattled his core. Her piercing green eyes grew sadder as she looked away from him, out the window. He did not know what she was looking at—probably nothing—but he knew the look in those orbs, the emotions it held. It was something he had never truly gotten to feel.

" _This_ is and always will be my home." The light of day reflected on her tan face. "The way of life for my people has been extinguished long ago. But this land; its sky, its earth, its winds, and trees—everything—is part of me and I will never be able to leave it." She turned to face him. "I stand like a tree here, with roots deeper than you can imagine. I was born here and I will die here. Even if I have to live in fear of expulsion, I will fight to remain here with all my strength," she said with such conviction that Tristan felt a twinge of guilt having asked her to come with him.

"You could never understand, you have always roamed this earth with Sofía, a free spirit. There is nothing tying you down."

"There is now, and she is being taken across the sea to a world she does not know," Tristan said as he stared straight into her eyes. He could not help Zoráida; a sentiment that weighed heavily on his shoulders. But he could help Christine.

Tristan got up from where he lay, feeling renewed after having rested. He turned to the bed, where his now clean shirt and doublet lay folded, courtesy of Hala. Zoráida looked away as the bare-chested man started dressing his upper body. She started packing her own things together, realizing that this was their goodbye.

They moved slowly, forcing their movements as neither wanted to part ways again. They both were like estranged brother and sister and as they walked out of the inn. After Tristan paid the innkeeper they stood, face to face. His mask, deep within the hood, managed to peek from underneath it, allowing her a view of his eyes. In the distance, her brother returned with Lucius and Joseph.

"I was never too good with goodbyes, you know that," Zoráida said, a faint smile spreading across her lips.

"I know." Tristan saw his friends approaching, wading through the masses of people that kept to the slightly wider main street. "I will try to stop by on the way back," he continued. Zoráida stepped in closer, a determined look spread across her features.

"When you come back, I will see your face," she said. It was not a request, nor a plea; so much was evident in her eyes. Instead, the words sounded like a premonition, a knowing that sparkled in her eyes. She caught him off guard and when he remained silent, she gave out a lighthearted laugh.

The wounds on her back had—as the barber predicted—festered. Christine had become delirious with a fever and she kept hallucinating. There was a time where Braun would not leave her side, making sure she survived. He kept muttering that it was of utmost importance that she remained alive.

They docked in the Spanish port early that morning, the sun was not yet up. Braun and his fellow men were on alert as he sent out one of the crew members to find a physician. The older man, Antoine Beauvais, was a Frenchman who had lived in Barcelona for a few years. He was familiar with the Spanish language and customs.

Antoine scoured the inner city, trying to find a suitable physician for the young woman the Angloan lord had in the main chamber. Many of the crew members who had decided to join Braun wondered who this noble lady was. A ship like theirs was not suitable for a woman like her, much less in the company of so many men. They had not been surprised when one of the men had broken in and almost raped the girl.

He stalked the streets, the sky brightening every second. Antoine paid little attention to the pedestrians that he pushed elbows with. There was one moment where, without looking, he bumped into someone.

"¡Perdón!" he exclaimed, looking up. His face dropped slightly as he was met by a tall man, hiding his face deep within a hood. Yet, Antoine spotted the throat—the skin hidden by what appeared to be dark leather. The man muttered something and walked past him. He was flanked by two other men. A blond, well-dressed man looked back at him.

"Did he get your shoulder?" the blond asked, a look of worry spread across his features.

"Yes, but the wound didn't open," the low voice said from within the hood. When the other's expression did not change, Antoine heard an audible sigh. "You worry too much, Lucius," he muttered. The Frenchman's eyebrow rose, he recognized the accent: Angloan. It was always strange to see Angloans leave their ships in foreign ports, especially if they were from higher classes. However, Antoine paid little heed to the strange trio.

He stalked through the narrow streets. Antoine kept his head low, keen on not getting mugged or getting into trouble. He knew it would be difficult to find a decent physician. Braun had told him that money was not a problem—not that it was what worried him. It was Sunday, soon everyone would attend mass; somewhere he should be too, but he guessed that Braun would not appreciate his sudden devoutness to God. Angloans and their lack of devotion. He would not be surprised if the whole island soon reformed its religion like some of the other European countries were speculating on doing.

Alas, it was still Sunday. It would be hard to get ahold of people now. Not that Christian physicians were that good, anyway. All knew that the Jewish and even the Moors were more refined and knowledgeable when it came to medicine.

So, without wasting much time, Antoine set out for the Jewish and mudéjar quarters to see if a kind—or greedy—soul would come back to the ship with him. It wasn't an ideal situation; like many other Europeans, he was prejudiced against those who weren't like him.

* * *

 **A/N: Thanks for those who reviewed! Much appreciated! Next chapter will be up soon. I have no posting shedule, I post when I can since I'm working hard over the summer.**

 **Cheers!**


	3. Chapter 3

**WHISPERS OF THE PAST**

 _Chapter 3_

 _March 30_ _th_ _, 1461 – Cadherra_

Philip sat in the Throne Room, watching as young and old men from far and wide presented themselves, eager to form part of his new assembly. He was growing tired of old men, from old generations with no mind to renew and improve their country. Philip wanted new men with new ideas, ready to break with the tedious traditions that seemed so embedded into their foundations. If Angloa was to grow and improve, other men than those who currently had a grip on her had to do it. That much the king understood.

So far, out of the hundreds of applicants he had seen for the last few days, only a dozen stood out. There was one last man who would come to stand in front of him. Philip was tired and in a bad mood.

A young man with proud bearing stepped forward. He dressed in dark hoses and a green doublet with puffed upper arms, lined with silver. The young man had his fair hair cropped close to his shoulders and a fringe, fashionable at the time.

Philip didn't even bother to ask his name; such a fashion snob would serve him no good.

"From where might you be?" he asked, as he had asked all the others. The tone in his voice was slightly off-putting. The king did not mask his fatigue.

"From the island of Cantabria, Your Majesty," the lad said, confused that the king would not have his name first.

"Ah, yes, Cantabria. And what brings you here," Philip continued, lacing his voice with boredom.

"Well, I thought I'd come and offer you some advice. God knows you are in need of it, Your Majesty," the young man continued. The daring words were seen as an insult by many present, but it piquPhilipp sat in the Throne Room, watching as young and old men from far and wide presented themselves, eager to form part of his new assembly. He was growing tired of old men, from old generations with no mind to renew and improve their country. Philip wanted new men with new ideas, ready to break with the tedious traditions that seemed so imbedded into their foundations. If Angloa was to grow and improve, other men than those who currently had a grip on her had to do it. That much the king understood.

So far, out of the hundreds of applicants he had seen for the last few days, only a dozen stood out. There was one last man who would come to stand in front of him. Philipp was tired and in a bad mood.

A young man with proud bearing stepped forward. He dressed in dark hoses and a green doublet with puffed upper arms, lined in silver. The young man had his fair hair cropped close to his shoulders and a fringe, fashionable at the time.

Philipp didn't even bother to ask his name; such a fashion snob would serve him no good.

"From where might you be?" he asked, as he had asked all the others. The tone in his voice was slightly off-putting. The king did not mask his fatigue.

"From the island of Cantabria, Your Majesty," the lad said, confused that the king would not have his name first.

"Ah, yes, Cantabria. And what brings you here," Philipp continued, lacing his voice with boredom.

"Well, I thought I'd come and offer you some advice. God knows you are in need of it, Your Majesty," the young man continued. The daring words was seen as insult by many present, but it piqued the interest in the monarch. For the first time, Philipp took a good look at him and saw two deep set gray eyes, staring fearlessly into his own. The man looked to be in his twenties, but there was a wisdom in his orbs that spoke beyond his years.

"And what advice would that be?" Philipp said, humoring the young man.

"Well," he continued, his commanding voice settled into a pleasant tone as he started explaining. "I think Your Majesty made an excellent choice when you decided to bring in some fresh opinions and people into the folds of court; for now I am sure that you are more perceptive to the faults in your kingdom."

Philipp leaned forward, intrigued by the words. "Continue," he said.

"You have done little else but listen to your old advisors, Sire. I understand these things can be complicated, and I have little experience in the matter. But I do understand one thing, that listening to the people is the most important thing any king can do, and you have been turning a deaf ear to them," the man continued. Philipp knew he was right. Ever since he had been crowned he had been so occupied with making sure the most basic things worked, that he had paid little heed to anything the interest in the monarch. For the first time, Philip took a good look at him and saw two deep-set gray eyes, staring fearlessly into his own. The man looked to be in his twenties, but there was a wisdom in his orbs that spoke beyond his years.

"And what advice would that be?" Philip said, humoring the young man.

"Well," he continued, his commanding voice settled into a pleasant tone as he started explaining. "I think Your Majesty made an excellent choice when you decided to bring in some fresh opinions and people into the folds of court; for now I am sure that you are more perceptive to the faults in your kingdom."

Philip leaned forward, intrigued by the words. "Continue," he said.

"You have done little else but listen to your old advisors, Sire. I understand these things can be complicated, and I have little experience in the matter. But I do understand one thing, that listening to the people is the most important thing any king can do, and you have been turning a deaf ear to them," the man continued. Philip knew he was right. Ever since he had been crowned he had been so occupied with making sure the most basic things worked, that he had paid little heed to anything else.

"And what do the people say?" he asked.

"Well, they starve, Your Majesty. They are heavily taxed by your brother and other lords who feel they can do whatever they please as you do not seem to be paying attention." Some of the other lords present gasped at the young man's words.

"How impertinent!" one of them exclaimed, seemingly offended on the king's behalf. But Philip liked what he heard. He saw wisdom, laced with some arrogance. In some senses, the man reminded him of himself when he was younger. He liked the truthfulness of his words, but also how he delivered those words so expertly.

He leaned back in his chair and looked at the young man. "What is your name?"

"Thomas Athar, Your Majesty," the young man answered.

"Thomas Athar," Philip repeated as if saying the words would help him decide. He eyed the man once more. "Are you son of some lord? I swear I have heard that name before," the king said.

"No, Sire, I am no lord's son. My grandfather was a mercenary, he fought in the war of independence many years ago, before your or my time, and he won many battles. He was knighted by one of the three on the battlefield of Sorossa," Thomas explained. Philip snapped his fingers.

"Of course!" he said, delighted to hear the words. "Even though you are not of noble birth, your words and convictions are reminiscent of a true nobleman. Perhaps you are more so than some of my lords in here," he chuckled, looking around. Some lords were visibly offended but never spoke up against their king.

"I am glad to hear it, Sire. I wish to prove that I can live up to these expectations you have of me and more," Athar answered haughtily. It provoked yet another lighthearted chuckle in the king, an arrogant eyebrow rose as he contemplated the young man. It did not take long for the monarch to decide.

"Indeed," he said. "Then so be it, Thomas Athar. I shall have you for my council and have you at my side. I hope you will not disappoint me," the king smiled enigmatically.

Athar bowed deeply, never imagining that he—the grandson of a lowly knight—had just come to be a royal advisor, by his own merit.

 _May 3_ _rd_ _, 1461 – Cadherra_

"These are alarming reports, Your Majesty, and they are growing in number." A man around Philip's age stood in front of him, worry creased his sunburnt face as he fiddled with the parchment in his hand. They sat in the assembly room of Adelton Hall. His new and old advisors listened attentively. The man continued skimming through the words on the parchment that had been handed to him during the early hours of the morning.

"We cannot shut the people out when they need us, now more than ever," the king said, ignoring Lord Flannigan snickering at him when he thought himself unobserved. Athar agreed as he silently nodded along with the king.

"If the plague spreads, it could wipe out half of the country. Then who would there be left to govern?" asked a young snarky lord, his slanted eyes turned into two malicious slits as he cast a glance in Athar's direction. The new addition of Athar and some other men had not been welcomed by the others. The older generations would often talk of the young newcomers, saying they poisoned the mind of the arrogant king.

"If we sit quietly on our behinds, the plague will indeed get worse," Philip cried, outraged with the lord. "It is indeed easy to withdraw into your castle and wait out the storm, but not that many people are as lucky. We need physicians to care for the sick, we need people to remove the bodies from the streets. But most of all, we need to distribute food, for those households that have already lost their laboring relatives," came the wise words of the monarch. His talks with his new advisors had opened his eyes to the needs of his people.

"The physicians do not know how to cure this disease," spat another lord.

"No, Lord Raleigh, but they can ease the pain of the suffering," scolded Athar in his light tone. "The least we can do is show compassion for the suffering and help with what we can," he continued. His stern look managed to silence the arrogant lord whose mouth turned into a thin line.

"And who will pay for all of this? I am sure that few people will remove rotting bodies on the streets for free, just as the physicians will not willingly risk their lives tending to the sick for free," commented Flannigan.

"The crown will cover what it can, and the rest I will pay out of my own pocket," growled Philip, wishing for the old crow to be silent for once. Flannigan did not speak against the king, but his displeasure was evident in his frown. The wrinkles grew deeper in his forehead—if such a thing was possible. The white tufts on the balding head flew with him as he quietly shook his head.

Magnus, also present at the assembly, had scarcely spoken. He had been reprimanded by his brother a few weeks earlier. Having been assigned with keeping up the royal treasury his greedy wife, Rebecca Trienne, had seen it as an opportunity. The minx had managed to persuade him to put a few coins in his own pocket, to add to their own wealth. Magnus had looked at that innocent expression as she patted her ever growing belly and he could not help himself. He had been ashamed, feeling his heart beat as he filled a small purse with gold coins, grinding his teeth as he felt the leather weighed down by the metal.

It had been easier the third and fourth times. By the tenth or so he did not even think about it. But he had swiftly been unmasked, by a young lad who, after having gone through the records, had found something amiss. Soon whispers that the brother of the king—the prince—stole money from the crown floated through the small streets of Hayes. They spread to Coldwick and up north, even reaching New London. Thomas Athar had been the one to muster up enough courage to openly speak against Magnus.

And Philip had listened to that young man.

Magnus looked down at his feet. His brother had never expressed it in words, but he knew that he had lost some of his trust. It was a hard blow to the prince who looked up to Philip in so many ways. He had failed him with such dishonorable conduct. Philip had hushed the whole thing down, but the damage was already done.

"I will pay from my own pocket as well," Magnus spoke up, after having gathered enough courage. All faces turned to meet his. Philip seemed surprised at first, but then a genuine smile spread across his features as his brother tried to redeem himself.

"Thank you, brother. Your generosity will surely inspire others to do likewise," Philip encouraged in a grateful manner, taking a quick look around the room. Some other lords voiced their willingness to contribute and soon, Philip had enough funds to care for the whole country, in case the plague spread.

"Lord Vega," the king said, turning to a man at the end of the table. His lavender blue eyes met those of the king. "You will take charge of this new project," the king commanded. Enrique Vega, of Spanish decent, gave a small nod. He had been added to the king's council at the same time as Athar had. The Spaniard had married a local Angloan beauty, and he had decided to settle down on the island—as was his wife's wish.

"I will, Your Majesty," he answered in his Spanish accent.

"Good. Then I declare this session ended." The king dismissed his advisors, keen on returning to his wife and son.

* * *

 _February 27_ _th_ _, 1520 - Málaga_

He watched with a sinking heart as yet another door closed in front of his face. No one was willing to help him, despite the money he offered. Antoine stared at the purse filled with gold coins. These people might not be as greedy as he had thought.

While he asked around, he found that there had been a man who used to help people like him; Musa the physician, living north of the city. Musa himself was dead, but his daughter had learned her father's trade and would come to the aid of those who asked—if she deemed them worthy.

The Frenchman wasted no time as he slowly trailed the path to Musa's house. The stench of the city was not as prevalent here. Incense and floral perfumes wafted heavy through the air, masking the foul smells of waste that the newer quarters saw.

He arrived at a horseshoe door, the bright cedar wood was faded, not as contrasting against the bright walls as it used to be. He knocked—the sound drumming in his ears as he prepared for yet another rejection. Antoine heard cautious steps from behind the door and someone opening the small panel at eye level.

"¿Sí?" came a weary voice as two dark eyes looked out from behind the door.

"I seek Zoráida," Antoine said in his accented Spanish. He tried hard to mask the tiredness in his voice from having walked around for so many hours. The sun was still high in the sky, burning at him despite the chilly February air.

The eyes of the woman flashed. "You will not find what you seek here, buenos días," she hissed, slamming the panel shut. Antoine heard mutters as the woman moved away from the door.

"I can pay," Antoine exclaimed in desperation. The girl Zoráida was his last hope. Antoine was hopeful that she and her family would be desperate enough for money to accept his offer. The woman still moved away, but now a new voice arrived. It was softer, younger and spoke a language Antoine did not understand. A heated discussion emerged from the two women as he stood there, clutching the bag of money. He knew how it looked; he, a complete stranger, asking for a young woman to come with him.

A sigh sounded and soon the cedar door glinted open. Someone sneaked out from behind it. Antoine's eyebrows reached his hairline as he caught sight of the young beauty before him. Her enigmatic eyes drilled holes into his soul as an exotic air of indifference extended around her.

"I am Zoráida, who asks for me?"

"My master, an Angloan. His… erm… _fiancée_ took a bad fall on deck when we came here and her back scraped across the wood. It became infested with splinters that have now infected the whole area. We hope that you could take a look at it," he explained. When she made no move to answer him, Antoine whisked forth the heavy leather purse, clinking it in his hand. "My lord would be very generous," he added, hoping she would accept. However, the action seemed to have insulted the young woman.

"I do not so readily accept an offer because of money. Who knows what would happen to me if I followed you," she said, wrinkling her nose.

"I give you my word that no harm shall befall you, señorita— "

"I am sure you would believe that," she muttered. But, instead of thinking of the money, Zoráida thought of the wounded woman. "How badly hurt is she?"

"The barber who removed the splinters says it's beyond his reach to treat her."

"You removed the splinters?"

"Yes," Antoine said, hesitating as her tone turned grave.

"It could have worsened the wound if you did not do it properly," Zoráida reprimanded, thinking of how Tristan had looked when he had come to her. She wouldn't be surprised if the woman's wounds were in a similar state. Zoráida squared her jaw as she started weighing the cons and pros. It did not take long for the young woman to decide.

"Where is she?"

"On my master's ship, in the harbor. It is the only Angloan ship in port, you will recognize it by its flag," he said, feeling the knot lessen as he realized that she was considering going with him.

"Very well, I shall go. But before I do I need my supplies and friends accompanying me. I cannot afford to trust blindly in strangers," she said, wary of the Frenchman before her. "There are many that trade in slavery these days. I do not wish to become one." Antoine grew offended at the remark.

"Madam, I would never—"

Zoráida only shook her head. "It does not matter how honorable you say you are, I will not be taken from my family. I shall meet you at the ship in two hours. I will bring my father's friends with me," she finished, ignoring Antoine's offended expression. She took in his appearance; he could indeed be working on a trade ship, one of those who took women as slaves and brought them to the other end of the Mediterranean. The market for such goods was rewarding and many favors could be bought trading with human lives.

Antoine held his tongue, knowing he could not afford to lose the last person that might help him. He bowed stiffly and set out back to the ship. If the two hours had passed and Zoráida had not yet come, he would ask a small group of men to come with him and bring her by force. Or he would threaten her with the Inquisition, he knew how afraid the _moriscos_ were of those priests.

Seagulls flew over the Spanish town Málaga. It was crowded by the harbor as the tide rose, many were ready to sail to new lands across the Atlantic and the Mediterranean.

Tristan stood on deck, his cape clinging to his body, his hood down, letting the salty winds caress his masked face. Now that he was better—healed, he could finally enjoy what he had missed so much; being at sea.

There was something magical about the far ocean where the never-ending waters met the broad horizon. He stared at the line that would never come close no matter how fast you sailed toward it. The crewmen on board the ship, most were from the Italian peninsula or the Spanish coastal town, ran around, preparing the boat.

"I cannot say I will enjoy this trip," Lucius muttered, walking up beside him. Tristan, curious about such a statement, turned to ask his friend why he had uttered such words. He grew silent when his question was answered. The young man next to him was already showing signs of nausea, his skin slightly paler and growing clammy.

"Did you have a similar reaction on the ship from Angloa?" There was a hint of amusement in his voice that irked Lucius.

"You know I did," Lucius muttered back, gritting his teeth. "Blasted ship and the men who invented sailing." The words provoked a slight chuckle in the masked man. Heads from the Italians and Spaniards turned, their eyes growing wide—who knew the masked man could laugh? He seemed like a menacing giant in his threatening attire and imposing mask. The ship's captain had almost not allowed him as a passenger the previous day. But some coaxing from Tristan and a few gold coins had been enough to persuade the stout man.

"Well, hopefully, everything will go smoothly," Tristan said, turning grim. "Roads may have highwaymen and bandits, but the seas have storms and pirates."

"Storms _and_ pirates?" came another voice. It was Joseph, joining them after having explored the ship. "The captain should pay _us_ for being on this ship. If we were attacked, I doubt very much that most of the sailors here could defend themselves," Joseph said hotheadedly, resting his hand on his sword.

"You would not want to meet the pirates of the Mediterranean," Tristan cautioned, turning to stare at Joseph. "Ghastly men, blackguards of the worst sort," he continued, concealing a faint smile as the younger man's casual demeanor gave way to worry.

"I have heard some pirates are cannibals, that they eat their victims," Lucius joined in. Teasing Joseph helped him ignore his slight nausea while it helped Tristan stop worrying about Christine, even if for a slight moment. Joseph let them do as they pleased, happy that he could help both his friends take their minds off their worries for an instance.

"You snicker like brothers; the strangest brothers I have ever seen!" a soft accent traveled their way that they could not place. It softened his English pronunciation. A tall, middle-aged man with curly raven locks and black eyes walked over to them. He bore a short, shaggy beard that hinted at a goatee underneath it, alas it had probably been weeks since its last trimming. He looked roguish as he had one ear pierced, dressed in Venetian clothes and kept a small, ornate pistol tied next to his hip. It was the captain of the ship.

"If we are brothers, they treat me like the youngest," Joseph snickered, giving the other two a playful glare.

"That is because you _are_ the youngest," Lucius retorted, crossing his arms.

Joseph looked at Tristan, pointing at him in disbelief. "Are you certain?"

"I can assure you, you are the youngest, Joseph," Tristan deadpanned. The look on Joseph's face provoked a hearty laugh in the captain.

"I was against having you on board, but it seems you three shall provide me with much entertainment on this long journey. Come, my friends, I will show you to your quarters."

"We are much obliged, Captain…?"

"Juán Mejías, at your service."

The three of them started following Juán to go under deck when something caught Tristan's eye.

"Is that not an Angloan flag?" he stated out loud. Juán turned around and followed Tristan's gaze to look at the ship he stared at.

"You have a good eye, señor. It arrived earlier today—some merchant ship. Apparently one of the men on board was wounded. It must have been the captain or the second in command because they sent out someone to search for a physician," the Spaniard explained.

"I see information spreads fast here," Lucius commented.

"But of course, señor. I always make it my business to know everyone else's business." Juán blinked, flashing a charming grin. "Now, come with me so that I might show you where you can rest. We sail shortly, the tide is almost ready.

The three men followed him, but Tristan's eyes kept wandering to the Angloan ship. Something about it seemed strange to him. A shiver went through his spine and his sore muscles tensed. It could be Braun's ship, but Braun had set out a few hours before them. The other fact was that they had spent a few nights in Málaga, making it impossible for the lord to arrive just now. No, it could not be Braun, and therefore Christine could not be on board that ship.

It had started to get dark when the small group made its way through the lit streets of Málaga. Most of them dressed to blend in, even Zoráida. She knew that it was better that way. Her father's friends had given it no second thought when her brother had run around their neighborhood, rallying them to her side. They had accepted a small pay to escort her safely to the ship and back to her home. This time it was not Tristan Hawthorne who sought her aid, but an unknown stranger on an unknown ship. She would not take the same foolish decision she had done when she followed Lucius, only accompanied by her brother. This time she would play it safe.

There, at the docks, they saw the Angloan ship and the group cautiously neared it. By the ramp leading up on deck she saw the Frenchman from before; Antoine. He looked around, worried that Zoráida would not show. But then he saw her shouldered by many fearsome men—dressed like common Christians, almost blending into the masses—almost.

"You are late." Antoine frowned as she neared him. A green bag was thrown over her shoulder, her enigmatic eyes pierced into his.

"But I am here," she said in a tone just as enigmatic as her stare. It made the Frenchman seize with his reprimand, only nodding. He knew she was right, it was better that she showed up late than never showing up at all. Zoráida looked around, few of the sailors were on deck. The newcomers did get a few curious glances cast their way from the men who stood on the boat, working hard to prepare it for its next voyage.

"Come, I will show you to her," Antoine said, motioning for her to follow him. Zoráida stepped on the ramp, hesitant at first, but when her father's friends made a move to follow her, as well as Ashiq, she breathed out. The young woman knew she was safe in their company. Antoine made no move to stop them, she had requested their presence after all.

They walked across the deck, being swabbed clean by a very young sailor, not yet out of his teen years. He did not look up from his task as the group passed him by. He seemed subdued by his station, always keeping his eyes on the floor, to avoid trouble.

Antoine showed them to the door leading to the main chambers below deck. The broad-shouldered men had trouble getting through the small door and some had to go sideways as they squeezed through. Yet, they never complained about it. After followed a series of narrow wooden corridors until they came to a shut door. Antoine knocked on the door and received a terse response. But before he entered, he turned to the group behind him.

"This is her ladyship's chambers. I suspect she will not want a group of unknown men to be allowed entry. I must, therefore, ask that the rest of you stay here and only allow the girl access," he explained to the men. But they did not understand him as they did not speak English. Zoráida translated what Antoine had said in a language that was not Spanish, probably some form of mozárabe. Her words did not please them.

"We cannot protect you if you go in there alone," one of them said to her.

"You will be right here, outside of the door, and if I should shout, you will hear me. Trust in that, I beg of you," she begged in a sweet voice, trying to calm the situation down. She did not need them to become agitated—in turn making the inhabitants of the ship wary of them. A squabble was not what they needed now. They nodded after having whispered amongst themselves in unison.

"I will go in alone, but my friends will stay right here, just in case," she said haughtily. Antoine nodded in agreement, thus opening the door for her.

Zoráida stepped into the chamber, trying to ignore the slight twinge of nervousness that ignited in her being as she was left to fend for herself. The young morsico girl swallowed deeply before she took in the surroundings.

The chamber was small. Directly in front of her, the main part of the wall was made up of windows, giving an impressive view of the horizon. The sun had started to go down but it was still light, only the colors had turned a shade deeper, a hint of orange now emerged in them.

Next to the door, a little part away from it was a grand bed, suited to hold at least two people. Sprawled on it lay the still form of a woman. Her golden locks covered her face and her back was bared, the bandages removed, showing the red and irritated skin where blisters had formed from the removed splinters. White covers had been brought up to just above her hips, giving her some modesty. Next to the bed, on the other side, sat a man in a chair, staring out at the horizon, deep in thought. He was older than the girl and Zoráida guessed he was around fifteen or twenty years her senior. His brown hair had started thinning at the temples and his goatee gave his angular face an even more angular look that did not do him any favors. His face turned to meet hers and something in his dark eyes made Zoráida wish she were somewhere else. She had always trusted her intuition; it told her not to trust this man.

"Ah, I see the physician has finally arrived," he drawled in a slightly irritated tone. The man rose up from the chair, standing tall and proud as he walked over to her in heavy steps. "I could not believe it when Antoine told me it was a woman that had agreed to help my Christine," he continued. The remark made Zoráida raise a delicate eyebrow and scoff, offended.

"Yet, here I am, you agreed to get my help," she pointed out.

"I hope we made the right choice," the man said, a thin smile spreading on his lips, appearing false and unnerving to her.

"Well then, Mr…?" she trailed off, not knowing his name.

"I am _Lord_ Oscar Braun and this here is my fiancée. We were on our way back from Venice when she took a bad fall and hurt her back," Braun explained. Zoráida looked at the back. Those were wounds sustained from more than a bad fall. She eyed him again but did not voice her thoughts, instead, she went over to the young woman, still not having shown any signs of lucidity at her presence. The young woman sat down on the bed and her hands went to touch the arm of the blonde.

"My lady," she said in her accented English. Christine turned to face her and Zoráida took in the beautiful face of the woman before her. She saw someone very different from her staring with a subdued fire in her eyes.

"I will request that you leave me alone with the patient, my lord," Zoráida said as she started emptying the contents of the bag on the vast bed next to her. Braun frowned at the words.

"I'd rather be near my intended," he demanded, moving to sit down on the chair again.

Zoráida rose up, a contained anger present in her exotic features. "I mean to remove the covers of this woman to examine for more wounds. You will have to leave if you have any respect for her modesty," she snickered. Braun's mouth turned into a thin line.

"I will be standing right outside," he finally said after a pregnant pause.

When the door had closed, Zoráida let out a breath and checked on Christine. Slowly, working out of habit, she started treating the wounds, as gently as she could. First, she disinfected them, washed them with alcohol, taking great care not to hurt the young woman too much. After she checked for any more splinters that the barber might have missed. Zoráida took some sterilized pincers and set out to pluck them from the irritated flesh. It was a long task, monotonous, and the minutes went by in complete silence.

"You will not scar, not too much," she finally said to the woman she was treating. Zoráida received no answer.

"Did your fiancé do this to you?" she asked after a while, completely ignoring that the question was out of place.

"He is not my fiancé," came the reply. Hatred laced the Angloan's voice as she turned her head to face Zoráida. The response did not surprise the latter.

"That much is obvious," Zoráida responded. She continued plucking small pieces of wood that had embedded itself deep within the skin of the fair woman.

"He did not do this to me, but he might as well have," Christine continued. Tears of pain streamed down her face as the pincers dug into her open flesh, but she refused to scream out in pain.

They both said little after that. Christine felt herself relax at the delicate touch of the unknown woman that tended to her. She let her mind wander as the last of the splinters were removed. Zoráida started applying a herbal paste to the wounds, letting it seep into the open skin, to heal it faster. After, she started putting on sterilized bandages, washed in vinegar, taking care to do so slowly.

"I have a group of my father's friends with me, here outside. I am certain that if I asked, they could get you out of here and we could hide you at our home," Zoráida offered. It was spontaneous on her part. She had not thought it through. But seeing the subdued suffering in the foreigner sparked something within her. Perhaps it was pity, or a sense of solidarity.

Her words inspired hope in Christine, there was a chance she might escape Braun. She turned to look at Zoráida. "How many men?" Her words were barely a whisper.

"Five—seven counting me and my youngest brother," she said. The hope lit inside of Christine swiftly disappeared. Five men would not stand a chance. Between Braun and Antoine out in the hallway, half of them would perish, even more: Braun was an experienced swordsman after all.

"It is not enough," she said, feeling her voice tremble. "They will kill all of you before we make it to port. If we made it off the ship and ran to Málaga, Braun would stop at nothing to get to me. I am part of a personal hatred he held for someone," she said distantly.

"Someone you love?"

"It is complicated," Christine trailed off. All she received was a smile.

"Sometimes revealing our pains will help us deal with them," Zoráida offered. She suspected Christine had no one else to talk to.

The trembling sigh revealed the pained state of mind of the wounded Angloan. "He killed the man I was to marry."

"I am sorry," Zoráida said distantly. She felt Christine's pain. She had not lost a lover, but she had lost a father and a brother. She knew the pain that death of someone close brought on. "I wish I could help you." They both sat there for a while in silence, enjoying each other's company.

She had bound the bandages a long while ago, but yet the morisco girl lingered. Zoráida took Christine's hands in her own and stared deep into her eyes. Her emerald irises glowed in the absence of daylight as the sun started sinking deeper and deeper on the horizon. A deep connection of understanding passed between both strangers.

She felt the other reach for something and Christine glanced down. Her eyes widened as a small curved knife with a soft leather sheath in white was placed into her hands. Zoráida closed Christine's hands around it and looked back into the thankful depths of the woman she could not save. Zoráida usually carried such daggers with her as protection—against whatever might come. But it was clear that Christine needed it more.

"Hide this. Maybe someday it will become useful to you," she whispered. Christine gripped the strange knife tightly—as if it were her only lifeline, her only comfort in the world.

"Thank you," she said, a pained expression flashed across her face. She promptly hid the knife under the pillows she had been resting on. Zoráida, still unable to leave, fixed the last of the bandages in place. Something in the young morisco girl worked against her as she finally stood up. She did not want to go from that young woman, broken as she was; in body and soul. Yet, Zoráida had seen something in the depths of her lavender eyes, a small fire, a sleeping tiger, ready to be awakened at the right time. She hoped it would be sooner than later; if the girl wished to live in this harsh world.

She monotonously gathered her things. Their exchange had been a brief one, but a meaningful one. Zoráida bowed deeply before going to the door, a gesture of respect. Maybe they could have been friends in another life—maybe.

 _February 28_ _th_

When morning dawned on the last day of the month, Braun went to inspect a sleeping Christine. She was dressed in a thin, white dress. Its back was cut open, revealing the bandages, sullied by the herbal paste that the morisco girl had placed on her the previous evening.

A door shutting slowly woke her from her slumber. Zoráida had given her something to drink the previous night, which had sent Christine into a dreamless sleep. She had not rested so well in weeks. She looked out the window and saw that they were out at sea once more.

"It seems that the morisco girl worked wonders on you," Braun said in a merry tone as he went to sit down on the chair next to the bed. Christine felt the blade under her pillows, gently clutching it, feeling safe having a weapon so close to her person.

"She did," was all Christine managed without lashing out at him.

"She left some more of that paste and clean bandages for me to change," he continued.

"I'd rather Antoine do it," Christine snapped, her voice short and stern. She'd rather have anyone else than Braun touch her at the moment. He sighed.

"I'm trying, Christine—"

"I am _Miss Vega_ to you. You have no right to use my Christian name after what you did to me, to my fiancé," she spat. Braun was taken back by her ferocity.

"It seems the good night's rest has also given you your spirit back," he murmured, something in his voice unsettled her.

"Get out," she hissed, turning to face him, thus letting go of the knife that was stored under her pillow. When Christine sat up she got a clear view of his face and did her best to hide her own expression. Perhaps it was because she had been so long with Tristan, getting used to his mask, to only be able to read him by the eyes and the movement of his mouth. Now Braun's face was like an open book to her. She saw lust shining in those dark depths as his eyes trailed over her lithe form, taking in every little curve of her body. But there was something else she saw there, something she had seen before. It was a look she had welcomed in Tristan but abhorred in Braun. It was worry. The expression was overshadowed by the want that was so evident in his eyes. She could understand why, she was dressed in barely anything, leaving little to the imagination. Braun was a man at sea, far away from any other woman that could offer him the pleasures he so clearly needed. But she could hint at worrying, different from Tristan's but clearly there.

Braun worried for her, in his own twisted way. The notion disgusted her. But soon her mind started working. She could benefit from this, she could kindle this small flame within her.

Christine settled back in the pillows when he did not make a move to leave. She faked a painful hiss—as if the movement had aggravated the wound. Braun squared his jaw while his eyes drifted to her back.

"I can send for Antoine, but I do not know where he is. It could take some time, and I see that you are clearly in discomfort," he said.

"Very well," Christine said, lacing her voice with pain. "I will let you change the bandages, but only this time. Then I want you gone from my sight," she spat, glaring at him from the corner of her eye. She saw a twitch in his lips. He probably thought her newfound ferocity charming—what a strange man he was.

Braun went to sit next to her on the bed and gently put aside her golden locks, ignoring how his blood was currently traveling south as he stared at her bandaged back. When Christine made no move to push him away, he carefully removed the bandages, one by one, revealing the skin beneath. He cleaned away the paste with fresh seawater, satisfied that the redness had died down and that the blisters were smaller. He cleaned his own hands and started rubbing the paste on her back. He did it slowly, taking pleasure in feeling the soft skin beneath his hands.

Christine had to fight hard not to take the knife from beneath the pillow and plunge it deep into his heart. She could hear his breath quicken and she imagined what he must be feeling and thinking at the moment. She had never seen Braun like this—or perhaps she had always been blind to such things until she had wanted to see them. Every touch of his on her skin made her want to vomit. She could only imagine him piercing Tristan with his sword, unmasking him and leaving his exposed face for the world to see. But she pushed through her own feelings, telling herself that when she was healed, there would be many opportunities for her to escape. Her hand slipped once more under the pillow and Christine touched the knife that lay hidden.


	4. Chapter 4

_May 19_ _th_ _, 1461 – Cadherra_

Philip paced back and forth in that desolate hallway. Even though they were practically at summer's doorstep, a coldness overtook his body and soul. The worry was so present on his face that no one close to him wanted to disturb. His hands were clasped behind his back as he felt the weight of the world on his shoulders.

The door next to him suddenly opened. The king rushed to the physician. But when he heard the sobs of his wife, he understood it was no use. Marianne tried to contain her cries as she sat by the bed of her son, not wanting to leave his side.

The physician's face was reddened with anxiety and almost guilt. "Your Majesty—"

"My son, will he be alright? Is it just a cold as we suspected?" Philip tried to stay brave and not let too much vulnerability show through as he spoke with the aging man before him.

"The prince is showing the first signs of the plague," the man before him forced the words— strangled and strange. It sounded like a mere whisper to Philip then. For which parent could even begin to comprehend that their child was struck by a mortal disease? At first, Philip would not accept it. He felt older then—as if his years had suddenly caught up with him. The king was no longer that once young and charismatic prince, nor the arrogant monarch who would do anything for his country.

He was only a parent, faced with the potential death of his child.

The king stared emptily into the eyes of the physician. "Is there anything we can do?" he asked in a voice so hopeless that the physician felt the need to step back.

"We caught it at an early stage. There might still be hope, Your Majesty." But Philip did not believe him. The look in the medic's eyes had told him enough. And the cries of his wife bore straight into his soul.

He pushed past the man to join Marianne and Edmund. "I urge Your Majesty to be cautious. The disease is highly contagious," the physician said after him. But Philip didn't listen, just as the queen had not listened.

He then saw the small figure of a boy, shivering as fever took him. His pale face was twisted in pain as he gently cried. Marianne cried with him, not wanting to let go of his hand. She turned to meet her husband, looking as lost as he felt. "Oh, Philip!" she exclaimed, opening her arms so that they might embrace. He gently hugged her, trying to be strong for the two of them. Marianne did not feel like a queen then. She felt all her power as a monarch was useless if it could not be used to help her child.

"They say there might be a chance. Tonight will decide Edmund's fate," she hiccupped. Philip gritted his teeth. But he masked his worry with a smile.

"Then I am sure our son shall live. I shall stay with him—"

"No!" she argued. "You cannot be here. If it is the plague—" Marianne could not believe what she was saying. "Then you must be kept safe."

"And what of you, my love?"

"A king is invaluable, a queen is replaceable," she sighed into his neck, her tears dampening his skin. Philip reacted strongly against those words. She never knew how invaluable she was to him.

As night fell, the monarch told his servants that he was retiring. When the castle seemed quiet, he snuck out of his bed. Philip silently walked with one wax candle in hand to the chapel.

As he entered the modest construction, the cross caught his eyes. The king was not precisely religious by nature but he felt he had no one else to turn to.

He slowly walked to the altar and kneeled at it, commencing a long night of praying. But Philip saw it more like begging. He put all his energy into it and as the hours ticked by, his stiff body protested. However, the monarch bit through the pain, ignoring his aching limbs.

 _May 20_ _th_ _, 1461_

As dawn neared, the king was still at the altar, begging the heavens to save his boy. He saw the situation as unjust. How could God punish him when he had done nothing but help his people? He did not see the plan of the Lord in taking his boy from him.

He tried to ignore the coldness of the stone chapel. The sigh echoing through it reverberated through him and a shiver struck him unlike anything he'd felt before. Philip felt himself watched at that moment. Perhaps it was the lack of sleep that started playing tricks on his mind. But the king sensed something looking over him.

It was one of the priests who found the otherwise proud king, kneeling admits lit wax candles, staring at the cross that floated before him. Daylight spilled into the enclosed space, disrupting the darkness that otherwise enveloped him. Philip ignored the footsteps that neared him. At this point, he was too afraid to hear any news regarding his son.

"Your Majesty?" the priest said in astonished disbelief as he neared the altar. The monarch was dressed in nothing but a long white nightgown and a purple velvet robe lined in gold thread. When the man would not react to his calls, the priest slowly reached out to gently shake his shoulder.

"What news of my son?"

The priest then smiled, alas the king could not see it. "The prince lives to see another day," was all he said. The monarch turned to face him—his face exhausted from lack of sleep, but gratefulness shone in his eyes as he looked back at the cross. "It seems your prayers were heard."

Philip got up, against his protesting limbs, and darted to his son's bedroom. There he found Marianne, speaking to the physician. It seemed she had spent the whole night awake, outside of her Edmund's chambers. Both parents had watched over their child, and it seemed to have paid off.

When she saw her husband, dressed in his nightclothes, her smile grew. "My love!" she exclaimed. When he neared them, the king only had to take one look at the physician to get a full report on his son's status.

"It seems the fever has broken. I cannot yet say with certainty, but it appears His Royal Highness will survive this ordeal," the old man said, a proud smile gracing his features. The grin became even wider when the king gave out a laugh, tears threatening to escape his eyes. The past two days had been hell, but it seemed the royal family would pull through. He opened the door to see his son. But the physician cautioned him.

"Sire, we are still not entirely sure that it is not the plague. Yesterday we took little precautions. But today we need to be wary. We suspect it is airborne," he said, handing a piece of white cloth to the monarch and some gloves. "I suggest you use these and then throw them away into the fire, just in case." Philip looked at the mask.

"Am I to appear like some sort of bandit before my son?" he exclaimed, suddenly furious.

"Dear," his doting wife said, moving in to save the physician. "It is only a precaution. I had to wear the same thing when I walked inside. The maids attending Edmund are wearing them as well. He understands, he is old enough to do so."

Philip's mouth turned into a thin line as he accepted the cloth, tying it across his nose and mouth. It would prevent him breathing the contaminated air. And the gloves would protect his hands. Before he was to enter, Marianne could not help but laugh a little.

"Alas, you do look a bit like a ruffian," she cooed, placing a gentle kiss on his cheek. Philip merely scoffed, his handsome face still not entirely hidden behind the cloth. The physician grew embarrassed as he witnessed the display of affection between the king and queen.

Some maids were washing his son while others were airing the room when he entered. A delicate vase of freshly picked flowers was placed on the table next to the bed.

Once the maids understood it was the king, they all quickly left, leaving the father alone with his son.

"I did not know bandits were now allowed into the castle," Edmund's weak voice said as he caught sight of his father. Philip chuckled as he sat down next to the young prince.

"I snuck in, Your Highness," he played along, deepening his voice and accenting it.

"And why would a bandit wish to see a sickly prince?"

"I did not come here to see a sickly prince. I came to see the prince who defeated death," Philip boomed. The ten-year-old stared back at him, astonished.

"Is that what the people are saying about me?" he asked as his eyes lit up with wonder. Philip merely nodded. Suddenly Edmund grew shy, looking at his father from under his eyelashes. "Is it true what the maids say? That you stayed up praying for me at the chapel the whole night?"

Edmund's words caught his father off guard. "There are some things in life that no amount of power or money can get you," he began explaining. "So then there is only one way we can all look to and ask for help."

"It seems He listened," Edmund smiled, but exhaustion was still evident on his face.

"Indeed," Philip smiled under the cloth. He brushed the boy's hair out of his face and tucked him in. "What you need to do now is to rest, so you can ride your stallion once more, my son."

"I want to be like you one day, father," Edmund began, sleepily.

"And you will, only if you rest now."

As Edmund shut his eyes, Philip gave out a sigh of relief, never letting go of the small hand.

 _March 2_ _nd_ _, 1520_

The last of supper was taken away by some sailors. Juan patted his belly in a satisfied manner, relaxing back in the high chair, sipping on his cup of Rioja. The Spanish captain had invited the three Angloans to come dine with him. Journeys at sea were always dreary and awfully boring, and the man always found company—in any form—to be better than dining by himself, or with his steering mate.

"What takes you to Rome, señores?" the captain asked as he passed around the wine bottle so that they might serve themselves. His eyes drifted to the masked one, a man he found deliciously alluring. If there was something Juan Mejías loved it was a good mystery. The two blonde ones exchanged glances over their cups of wine.

"Business," Lucius said in his baritone voice that boomed in the captain's cabin. The curt response only provoked a laugh in Juan.

"If you are businessmen, then I am the king of Spain!" he exclaimed laughing, raising his glass at the mention of his king, drinking to his honor. "I am guessing you are on your way to Rome for some other type of business, say business of honor perhaps?" he continued. The words seemed to provoke some reaction in the two blondes, the masked man seemed as stoic as ever.

"Or perhaps it is a woman," he said, trying to dig deeper. Now the masked man seemed to tense up. "Ah, it seems I am on the right track," Juan mused, delighted at what he had discovered. "It _is_ about a woman."

"I would appreciate, _Señor… Capitán_ , if you did not meddle in our affairs," came the stern reply from Tristan as he leaned forward in his chair. Juan only arched one eyebrow before he put both hands up as a gesture of submission.

"I did not wish to offend you, señor," Juan began.

"Then do not speak more of it," Tristan said, cutting him short, hoping the conversation was over with.

"Ah yes," Juan could not stop himself. "But I always feel that women bring nothing but trouble," he started, pausing as if thoughtful. Both Lucius and Joseph grew nervous, sensing that Tristan was becoming tenser by the minute.

Juan unbuttoned the upper part of his shirt and exposed part of his collarbone. A deep scar ran a few inches wide, diagonally across his left collarbone.

"Her name was Lola," he sighed-as if remembering the woman who had inflicted that scar on him. He then rolled up the sleeve of his white shirt. A silver scar ran across his lower arm, not as deep but quite a lot longer than the first one.

"This one I got from Valentina," he lamented.

"It seems you choose the most passionate of them, or maybe that is just the way you do things here around the Mediterranean," Joseph muttered-more to himself than to Juan. His words provoked a chuckle in the Spanish captain.

"Valentina did this to me when she found out about Lola, I thought she would chop my arm off!" he exclaimed. "Lola wielded my own blade against me when she found out about Rosario."

"Rosario?" Joseph asked in blissful innocence.

"Hm yes, for then there was Ángela and Catalina. So many women, all of them have brought me many troubles over the years. Yet, I cannot seem to quit them," he said, staring at Tristan.

"It seems you have suffered for your woman as well, yes?" Juan asked, pointing at the mask.

"She did not scar me, if that is what you ask," Tristan growled, his hands in fists.

"Of course, señor. But you must understand my curiosity. I do not get to see many men in masks, unless they are bandits, and you do not strike me as a bandit." Juan took another sip from his cup, enjoying himself in teasing the three Angloans. But he knew he must tread carefully with the masked one.

"Might it be that you have so many troubles with women because you cannot settle for one?" Lucius put in, trying to steer the conversation in another direction.

"Probably. But I find that once I have decided for one, another just pops into my life, whatever I do. It is a curse, really," Juan said, flashing a charming smile. The ladies loved that smile more than they loved his sweet words and gentle caress. When he saw that he could not take the conversation any further, he decided to play along with Lucius and change the subject as well.

"I heard some disturbing news in the harbor at Málaga before we sailed," his brows knitted together. "Something about a coup in Angloa against the royal palace and the king himself."

"The facts are true," Joseph stated. "But the traitors were dealt with accordingly," he said. Juan eyed the trio a long while.

"Of course. Then again, some other traitors might have made it on to the first ship they could get, a ship that so happened to sail into Málaga. Maybe they are sitting here, in front of me, sharing my wine, my food and my hospitality." All lightheartedness was gone as Juan brought up what had been going through his mind for the last few days. He did not wish to house traitors on his ship. He was proud, like most Spaniards, and he would be damned if he had such dishonorable men in such proximity.

The tension in the room grew. His own steering mate, Rodrigo, could sense it as well, even if he did not speak a word of English. The masked man stared harshly at Juan through the slits of his mask.

"I assure you that we are not traitors," Tristan said, containing the anger he felt at the offense. But he would not explain himself, pride ruled before common sense. Instead, it was Lucius—ever the voice of reason—that jumped in before things got out of hand.

"We defended the royal palace when it was besieged by the traitors, led by Lord Oscar Braun—who unfortunately escaped, taking my friend's fiancée in the process," he spat. Lucius didn't like that he had to explain himself. Even so, it was preferable to spending the rest of the voyage locked below deck until the captain decided what to do with them. Juan's expression did not change, he was not moved by the words.

After a long pause-where the tension was unbearable, the Spaniard finally spoke, "Men will tell the most impressive lies to get away from what's coming for them." Joseph grew pale, if the Spanish captain did not believe them they could well risk being thrown overboard.

" _Juro por la Virgen que yo y mis hombres decimos la verdad. Os doy mi palabra de honor, por si eso os sirve de algo_ ," Juan rose an eyebrow, for the words weighed heavy on him.

"What did he say?" Joseph whispered in Lucius' ear as he inched closer. Lucius promptly hushed him, trying to read the expression on Juan's face. After a while, his harsh demeanor withered away.

"If you are willing to swear on the Holy Mother, I must take your word for it—as well as your word of honor," he said with a curt nod before the tension was completely gone. The rest of the evening seemed to pass by in a slow manner. The captain engaged Tristan in deep conversation, speaking in rapid Spanish while Joseph and Lucius got lost in trying to decipher the foreign language.

When the evening was coming to a close, for most of the wine had been drunk, Tristan, Lucius, and Joseph decided to leave for their quarters. On the way there, the masked man was bombarded by questions.

"What magic did you unleash upon that Spaniard that he would believe you with a mere phrase?" Joseph asked in awe. He only received a slight smirk from Tristan as they walked through the small corridor, their door at the end of it.

"He does believe in us, right? He knows we tell the truth and will not try to lock us up?" Lucius asked, still not entirely willing to trust that the matter could have been brushed away that easily.

"He assures me so, Lucius. But I would advise caution in either case. We arrive in Rome soon. We should try to get away from Captain Juan as fast as we dock, in case he reports us to the local authorities," Tristan explained.

"You think he would do that?"

"He promised me we would be safe on this ship, but I think him a fickle man; he did not promise our safety off the ship."

They entered their shared living space. Tristan had a bed in the corner with drapes, so that he could discard the mask when he slept—he trusted enough in his friends to do so now. When the door closed Joseph turned to him. "But what did you say to him, that first sentence in Spanish?"

"I am also curious, to be quite honest. From what Juan repeated it was something to do with swearing on someone?" Lucius said, curiosity shining in his eyes.

"I swore to him on the Holy Mother that we were telling the truth and after I gave him my word of honor—if he found that of any use. The Spanish are devout Catholics, he could not refuse," Tristan said, sinking down on the bed, not bothering to undress. He propped his head on the pillow, sure more questions would follow.

"I suppose you had a right, for we did tell the truth," Lucius continued, promptly cut short by Joseph.

"I had no idea you spoke Spanish so well!" the younger man exclaimed. "Where did you learn that?"

His question brought up the memory of Sofia once more. Tristan stared at the roof, remembering her gray hair, her black eyes and her sweet accent, running like honey. He missed her, now more than ever. He scolded himself; when they had been in each other's company he had taken her for granted. But now… now he had no idea where she was and a part of him felt lost without her guidance.

"I spent most of my youth in the company of a Spanish gypsy; Sofia. I don't think you ever met her. She was like a mother to me," he said distantly. Both men turned quiet, Tristan rarely talked about his personal life nor his past.

"But she was not your mother?" Joseph asked, digging where he should not. Lucius sent him an irritated glance.

"No, my mother is… not here," he sighed, occupied, no doubt, by memories of the woman who had given birth to him.

The other two did not push more on the subject and decided to leave it at that. They put out the candles and Tristan, feeling safe and protected by the dark, shed his mask. His thoughts wandered to another woman in his life; a woman with tresses of gold and lavender blue eyes. He knew he would see her again, hold her again, kiss her again. They could not arrive in Rome soon enough. He would seek up Cardinal Thorpe and take whatever means necessary against the man, anything so that he might find _her_.

 _March 5_ _th_ _, 1520_

She was above deck for the first time.

Christine had never sailed on the Mediterranean. She had always thought it the same as the Western Sea that stretched between Angloa and the continent.

But she had been wrong.

When she had traveled from Wessport, Christine and her mother had taken a ship down to Coldwick. The sea had been stormy, a black depth under gray skies that threatened to swallow the ship whole. She had kept away from it, trying to ignore the waves that rocked the ship violently, threatening to tip it.

But now, leaving Spain behind them, closing in on the east, she saw another world. The smell of salt and fresh seawater wafted through the air as frisky waves danced around the ship. The wind kissed her face gently, while the sun touched her pale skin, turning it a shade darker. She saw the men run around main deck, working fervently to manage the vast white sails, looking like strange clouds contrasted against the blue heaven. To her left, far in the distance, Christine spotted a very thin strip of land.

"That is North Africa," came a slow drawl behind her. The hairs on the back of her neck stood up in the presence of Braun as he neared, standing just behind her. She fought against the revolting reaction he provoked in her.

"I have never been there," she said in a stiff voice.

"It is indeed an impressive land, so very different to our own," he continued, awe lacing his voice. "Their customs, their way of life—there is a finesse in their culture, a grace that we have ignored for centuries in our land. And to the east, their accomplishments only grow. We are mere specks of dust compared to them. We have been wasting away in an age of ignorance and lack of culture," he sneered.

Christine was surprised at the words. She turned to face him. "You speak of Angloa?"

Her questioning glance and innocent expression brought a sly smile on Braun's face. "I speak of Europe in general, my dear," he responded. But the words made her frown.

"I do not think we are an ignorant people, nor that we lack grace of culture," she argued, offended at the way he so easily dismissed his own people.

"Do not speak of what you do not know, Miss Vega," Braun snapped, his eyes growing darker, a snarl spreading on his wicked mouth. Christine took a step back at the sudden change in him. Her eyes turned dark and her lips formed a thin line as their polite exchange had turned sour. Not that she had ever wished for polite conversation with him. Christine loathed Braun with all her heart. Braun recollected himself. He did, however, not apologize for his sudden outburst.

She tried to ignore him, feeling trapped suddenly, on that vast deck. The men kept sending glances her way; most knowing better than to try anything with her. The barber who had taken out the splinters drifted his gaze nervously from her to Braun and back. He did not like how the lord looked at the young woman.

"We shall arrive in a fortnight if the winds are in our favor," Braun said casually.

"And where might that be?" She had tried to discern where Braun might be taking her, but the only clue she had was Cardinal Thorpe.

"It matters little," Braun smiled. He stared as strands of her hair blew across her face, her lips parted as she awaited the rest of his answer. But it never came.

"It matters to me. I heard you speak of Carinal Thorpe—"

"Cardinal Thorpe," Braun chuckled as if remembering something before turning serious. "Once we arrive there, you will know where we are. "Commodities will have been prepared for you," he started, hoping to continue their conversation. But all he got was a glare as she pushed past him finally, making her way down to her quarters, praying he was not following her suit.

Christine arrived at her chamber, swiftly locking the door behind her, resting a brief moment against the worn wood. When she heard no footsteps, she went to the bed and searched under the mattress until she found the dagger Zoráida had gifted her. Holding it in her hands gave her comfort when nothing else would; it was safety—a weapon to defend her. Tristan was gone, hard as it was to accept it was a fact. Every night when she shut her eyes she was reminded of that. It hurt, but what had once been a sharp pain in her heart was now dull, aching. She reasoned to herself that she would always keep the memory of her fiancé alive. When she returned to Angloa—for she would indeed return—Christine would make sure that he was honored accordingly.

But she had to get to Angloa. As soon as they docked in whatever harbor Braun was taking her, she would run. The day he had stormed into the townhouse, she had heard whispers of Cardinal Thorpe. Christine never knew they were both allied, or perhaps they were not; perhaps Braun would run to wherever Thorpe was and push him for finances—it seemed like something Braun would do. Her mind had pondered this question for days. She had no recollection of where the Cardinal could be. But she suspected that there was only one place for him to visit if he had left Angloa: the Vatican.

Christine had managed to whisk a few coins from Braun's coat, which he would sometimes forget whenever he visited her. It would be enough to buy her safe passage across the Mediterranean back to Spain. She knew she would be safer on the Iberian Peninsula; where her father's relatives lived. They would no doubt help her the rest of the way back to Angloa; her motherland.

She found herself once more glancing out of the large windows, staring at an empty horizon where the sea met the sky. It was west—where the sun would set every afternoon, always shining in through the windows, bathing her chamber in a myriad of colors.

 _March 6_ _th_ _, 1520_

The clash of swords sounded on deck as the blades crossed once more. Tristan easily parried an attack from Juan as he sent him back. He was playing with the Spaniard, enjoying the control he held over their swordfight.

Lucius and Joseph watched intently, following every move of their friend.

"How does he move so swiftly?" Lucius asked himself.

"Indeed, I would stumble and fall myself attempting the moves he does," Joseph joined in. "But he fights well today, against this Spaniard. I guess it is because he fights with a dress sword. When he fought Braun, he fought with an unfamiliar weapon; that is probably why he was defeated." They could still detect that he had pain in his shoulder. But Tristan tried to bite through it, only focused on the fight. Tristan needed a distraction, he needed to improve his skills for the eventual rematch with Braun.

Lucius turned his head sharply and stared at Joseph in disbelief. "Braun defeated Hawthorne?"

"Aye, why do you think he was so badly wounded? It was Braun who cut through him. I thought it was because he was tired from fighting Lord Alistair, but I wonder," Joseph continued.

"I have sparred with him myself. He lets me win every time because his mind wanders too much," Lucius said, a slight offense creeping into his tone. It provoked a small chuckle in Joseph.

"Maybe that is what happened with Braun; the bastard probably used his words as much as his sword." Joseph looked pensive, trying to unravel the mystery of Tristan's defeat.

"Or perhaps Braun is his superior in swordsmanship," Lucius said, although the mere thought did not sit well with him. He found more reasons against such a thought when Tristan once more managed to coax the rapier from Juan's hand. The Spaniard laughed it off, but it was clear that he had had enough of such an exercise.

"Braun will not fight as dirty as Alistair. However, I am sure he had something up his sleeve when he fought Tristan," Joseph murmured as their masked friend shook hands with the captain.

"What do you mean?" Lucius asked, lowering his voice so that the others wouldn't hear.

"I cannot help but speculate. One of my father's friends—Lord Robert Giraine's cousin had apparently offended Lord Braun. This was almost a decade back, but Lord Robert loves to bring up this story every so often. I always thought him exaggerating; maybe I was wrong," Joseph said in a steady voice as the memories resurfaced.

"His cousin—whose name escapes me—was an excellent swordsman, well enough to be Braun's match. He chose combat by sword, of course. Lord Robert was the second, so he witnessed the whole ordeal. They fought for a long while. Lord Braun managed to slice the cousin first, drawing blood. But Lord Robert's cousin would not stop until he had sliced Lord Braun as well. It appears that he started getting more sluggish and tired at the end of their fight; it had gone on for a long time though, so it was natural. In the end, they stopped as—ah yes, _Fausto_!—that was his name! Fausto was said to have been very tired indeed. The wound he received on his arm got infected and he died from it a week or so later. Everyone else brushed it away as a tragic occurrence, everyone but Lord Robert, who suspected Braun was behind it. Perhaps he was only exaggerating in the end, though," Joseph finished.

"Perhaps we idealize our friend too much to the point where Tristan being defeated in combat becomes unthinkable. Maybe it was just that Braun was the better man," Lucius said in an emotional voice.

"Lord Braun was never questioned, for how could he have been capable of infecting such a wound, unless it was by witchcraft?" Joseph reasoned.

"Maybe Fausto was poisoned," Lucius said jokingly. "It would indeed be a strange poison to use, but practical would it not? Imagine a poison that would show up as a normal infection in a wound that you inflicted with your coated weapon. No suspicion would fall on you since death from infection and inflammation is a natural occurrence," Lucius speculated, playing with the idea. But it was never more than mindless speculation. Joseph, however, was keener on accepting such an idea.

"And why would Braun not have done such a thing? A man like him, without honor, could indeed use poison for his own benefit. He had everything to lose the day he stormed the palace." But when he saw the look on Lucius' face, Joseph realized his own folly. "Or maybe we are indeed over-analyzing this. Maybe Tristan was just tired and Braun the better man?" Joseph questioned. Lucius gave away a deep sigh.

"My wish is that we were onto something, but perhaps it is simpler than we imagined it." He patted Joseph on the shoulder. "Let us not dwell on such things now, Joseph. The time will come later, of that I am sure," he said. A tone of premonition laced his voice as worry seeped into his face, manifesting in the deepened wrinkles on the otherwise handsome visage.

"Perhaps," Joseph joined in, choosing to ignore what they had been speaking of.

"We dock in a few days," came a sudden voice behind them. The hairs in the back of their necks prickled up as Lucius and Joseph quickly exchanged glances. Tristan's dark voice boomed behind them and they wondered how he had managed to sneak up behind them on a ship that was all creaking floorboards.

"That is good, I cannot wait to get off this blasted thing," Lucius said, turning around.

"Yes," Joseph joined in, giving away a stale laugh, still caught off guard.

They both felt the penetrating eyes of their friend on them, those blue depths seemed to tear into them as the gentle Mediterranean breeze swished past.

"We should start preparing for Rome. I do not trust too much in Captain Mejías," the masked one continued. His words provoked frowns in his friends as they did not understand what he was talking about.

"You still suspect he will have us arrested as soon as we dock by Rome?"

"We will not even have made it out of the harbor before we are thrown into prison," Tristan confirmed.

"How can you be sure?" asked Joseph. He received yet another stare from the masked man.

"Because it is what I would do if I suspected someone until I could find the proof they spoke of," he said coldly. The words made sense to them both.

"Oh," said Joseph, seeing how his friend was always one step ahead.

"Oh indeed. You see, Joseph, I have time to give these things thought, instead of pondering about battles and duels already fought," he said, the hint of a smile touching his lips. "Or making up biased speculations about swords and poison," he added. The words turned both Joseph ad Lucius white as they realized that Tristan had heard their whole exchange.


	5. Chapter 5

**WHISPERS OF THE PAST**

 _Chapter 5_

 _May 29_ _th_ _, 1461 – Cadherra_

Philip heard the bells of the chapel ring through the whole meadow as the procession started. Their hollow sound stretched over the grasslands, creeping up the Durun Mountains and traveling into the heart of Raven's Grove.

Cadherra was in mourning.

Angloa was in mourning.

A knot that had formed in his heart would not loosen up. The middle-aged king felt the sorrow drown him. His young wife—the Queen—would not remove the black veil, so that the others could not see the tears that streamed down her face.

He watched from the window as the long train of men dressed in black carried the coffin that held his son, the heir to the throne. Edmund was dead—had died from the plague that had conquered the island. Death itself had raided through all of the villages of the country, finally sweeping Cadherra, taking the young prince with it.

He squared his jaw while watching from the tower in Adelton Hall, cursing that he himself could not attend the public funeral. A king must never be seen at a funeral-unless it is his own.

Magnus was at the head of the train, he himself had lost his own two-year-old daughter to the sickness a few days earlier. He had taken her body and buried her in the crypt of Adelton. The prince had been unable to express his grief. He was left with a void inside of him that would never again be filled.

Philip was brought back to reality by the soft cries of Marianne. He embraced his wife and fell into the spiraling sorrow with her.

When the funeral was over and night fell, they finally made their way down to the chapel to gaze upon the body. The place was empty and cold as if winter was upon them. Or perhaps it was just he that felt the chill of death having passed by.

He saw the handsome face of his young son—it would never mature beyond ten now. The sleeping visage rested, looking white as a ghost. His lips had turned purple and his body was so still. Marianne let her tears fall as she went over to the body.

"My son, my dear, sweet boy," she cried, embracing the corpse of the young prince as her tears streamed from her tired eyes. Philip had tried to hold in his own tears, but he finally felt them emerge, flowing freely as the loss of his child hit him.

He had not been able to contain his anger at the injustice of the situation. How could his son have survived only to fall ill again and then be taken from them? How could God play such a cruel trick on both parents?

The king could not entirely process the loss. He only felt pain and sorrow then, not understanding how his child could be dead.

That same night, in the confinements of his chamber, Philip started thinking about the future. He realized that he had no one to inherit the throne. No prince was there to take his place when he died—except for Magnus.

Alas, the more he pondered such worrying thoughts, the more he spiraled down into his own sorrow. When the pain overwhelmed him he toured the structure once more and took in its grandeur. The castle was nothing like Angloa had ever seen before. It emerged from the ground like a mighty tree on a small hill. The stones stacked on top of each other and reached for the blue skies.

He stared out over the open emerald field, the tall grass swaying gently in the wind. In the distance, the mountains stood—Raven's Grove gently enveloping them at their feet. Delicate clouds puffed from the chimneys in Hayes.

Philip then realized that he could not bear the sight of Cadherra. Every corner reminded him of Edmund to the point where it drowned him in a sea of hurt.

He had to get away.

 _June 1st, 1462 – Cadherra_

It had been more than a year since Philip and Magnus had lost their children to the plague. After having taken the prince and princess, it had quickly died down and the country recovered from its aftereffects. Many families had suffered from it. Many had to fight to survive after husbands, fathers, wives or mothers had passed. Some children had no living parents to tend them, and they were left to fend for themselves.

Alas, the crown had been generous, helping as much as it could. It had made the survivors prosper, and the country was at its strongest point yet.

Philip was out riding with his brother. His usual charming and smiling self never quite seemed to return. The monarch seemed mellower, less inclined to brash action. The wound that his son's death had provoked had not yet healed. And he only knew of one way to remedy that.

"I wish to move court," Philip confided in his brother as their stallions silently grazed the pastures deep within Raven's Grove.

"What?" Magnus could not believe what he was hearing. Adam Flannigan had tried to make the king move court for years, and now Philip seemed determined by his own merit to do so.

"Wherever I look I can only see traces of Edmund. He breathed life into this paradise. And now he is gone. Every time I am in this forest my healing wounds are reopened and it hurts."

"But you cannot, brother! If you move court many of us will lose from it. Not only will we lose power and money, but also—"

"Is that all you think of, Magnus? Of power and money? Has your wife poisoned your mind so much that you no longer have any compassion? What of your own child! The one you lost after she had barely breathed or felt the warmth of the sun on her skin," Philip growled, stopping his black horse. Magnus quickly ceased talking, cursing his brash mouth.

"You are weaker than I gave you credit for, brother. I never thought you would cling to power in such a way," Philip snapped. "I cannot believe we are related!"

"Forgive me, Your Majesty. I only meant to say that moving court may be unwise."

"Listen to me," Philip sighed. "There are more reasons to move court. It is not just due to my own pain. We are cut off from the rest of the world here. At least it feels that way sometimes. We turn a deaf ear to the beauty in front of us and never look away. I want to be in a place where I can devote all my time and power to make a change. I want Angloa to prosper," he explained. "I do not wish to be remembered as yet another king who kept himself and court in this castle, turning a deaf ear to the problems this country faced, a deaf ear to his people in their hour of need," Philip continued. Magnus could not help but frown as it was clear that his older brother spoke of their father.

"We might have been more successful in combating the plague if we had been more strategically placed. We did not hear news of it until it reached Sorossa, and by then it had spread to half of the country."

"Where do you plan to move then?" Magnus felt reluctant as he asked that question. His wife would not like the news. They would lose the presence and hold they now had at court. He had turned to power and money after the loss of his daughter—Magnus had tried to fill the emptiness within his heart.

"Wessport."

"That old fishing village up north?"

"It will be much more than a fishing village once I am done with it," Philip said, urging his horse into a canter. He was done discussing such things with his brother. It was obvious the latter did not favor his plans.

* * *

 _March 11_ _th_ _, 1520 – Civitavecchia, Italy_

They saw the coast nearing, and a port clinging to the waterline where many ships docked. Fortresses shielded the harbor, probably put there to protect it from Saracen invaders from the east or south. Lucius and Joseph were reminded of Málaga, in some sense—with the vast stone structures and busy people crowding the open street that faced the Tyrrhenian Sea.

"So this is Rome," they said in unison. For some reason, both men had expected something grander—vast structures or ruins, telling of a forgotten past. A whisper fleeting through time as the olden days reminded them of what had once been. Instead, they looked at the seaport and found it, in some sense, lacking.

"This is not Rome, not precisely," Tristan said, a hint of worry laced his voice. "This is Civitavecchia, a port town northwest of Rome."

"And what are we doing here then?" asked Joseph. He did not get an answer, but instead saw the masked man tense up. Tristan's shoulder had healed considerably after Zoráida's care. The dark doublet he wore no longer looked as bulky over his left shoulder since he wore thinner strips of bandages now. The one shirt he owned still had the faded red stains from his wound, where the blood had escaped the bandages. His gloved hands were clenched into fists, one gripping the hilt of his sword, a habit he had whenever he grew tense. Lucius and Joseph had grown accustomed to reading his body language, since they could never perceive his state of being from reading his face.

"I am afraid that if we do not do something fast, we will have to figure that out in a cell or a dungeon somewhere," he said, glancing back at Juan through the slits in his mask. The captain had avoided them the whole morning as they got closer to the Italian port. He was practically telling the trio that he planned to have them apprehended as soon as they docked.

"Tonight there will be no moon. We can steal a small boat ourselves and make for the coast, away from the city. If we keep to the coastline we will drift with the current and arrive close to the old Roman port, Ostia," Tristan said. His friends did not have to think twice, they liked the plan.

"But how can you be sure that he will not have people guarding the deck?" Joseph had seen several sailors stand guard whenever he had escaped up to deck for a fresh breath of air while the others slept.

"We will knock them out and before the alarm is sounded we will be away," Lucius said. Tristan nodded in agreement and so the three started formulating the details of their escape.

When night came, not a soul seemed to stir on the ship. The trio, having packed what little belongings they had, quietly moved their way from below deck. Tristan, who sported the darkest clothes—practically like another shadow on that moonless night, prowled the deck. He found two guards and swiftly took each one out with a small blow to the head. Once they were down he sprinkled wine on them. If anyone found the sailors, they would think them passed out drunk. It would not raise suspicion until they were far away. When a third man had been taken out, Joseph and Lucius started preparing the small rowboat while Tristan kept watch.

While they were sneaking around in the darkness, all three could feel their heartbeats speed up at the thought of getting found out. Tristan had been in similar situations before and felt more at ease when his hand drifted to his sword. Joseph had managed to prepare a small provisional bag of food and water, in case their journey south took longer than expected.

All seemed to be going well until Tristan caught sight of a moving shadow in one corner of the deck. One glimmer of steel reflecting in the light of the coastal town was all he needed to draw his own weapon. Lucius and Joseph were caught off guard as they heard the clash of blades.

"Lower the boat!" Lucius hissed in Joseph's direction as he turned to help Tristan.

"But what about Tristan?" Joseph asked. When no answer was given he decided to chance it. He jumped into the small boat, barely capable of fitting the three of them. He saw four or five figures engaged in battle, black shadows barely outlined against the contrasting sky. He had no idea who had the upper hand, but, soon, recognition shone in his eyes as he discerned one fighter with a peculiar fighting style he had seen once before. It was Tristan, taking down two other men easily with one hand. It was all Joseph needed to let go of the rope that held him and the boat floating mid-air. A rush flew through his stomach as he fell several feet before hitting the black sea with a big splash.

As soon as he touched water, a figure threw itself clumsily over the edge, diving into the murky depths. When a blonde head popped up, Joseph let out the breath he had been holding, knowing it was Lucius.

"Where is Tristan?" he asked worriedly, glancing up at the ship. The splash of their boat had most assuredly awoken the rest of the crew by now. He could hear the shouts as people rushed to investigate what the commotion was all about.

"He told us to start rowing, to get the boat away from the ship," Lucius said as he crawled up into the boat, soaked to the bone. The adrenaline rush from having jumped protected him still from the night chill. But Lucius could feel his limbs going cold with each second. They had to get as far as they could. He trusted in Tristan's abilities to catch up with them.

They heard some more clashes of steel and shouts of pain. Suddenly, a black silhouette was outlined against the rest of the ship. It sprang toward the edge and dove gracefully into the water. They kept rowing away from the scene, hoping Tristan would find them. Seconds seemed to turn into agonizing hours as no head popped up. But, then, it emerged; a black head broke the surface and two glistening eyes found their boat. With long, sure strokes, Tristan reached them and hailed himself over the hull of the rowboat.

Without a word he turned around in his seat as Lucius and Joseph rowed. A satisfied smile spread across his lips as the crewmembers were still blindly fighting each other, confused by the whole situation.

Their escape was swift, and before Juan Mejías or anyone else on his ship discovered what had really happened, the trio was already far away.

 _March 18_ _th_ _, 1520_

Christine stared at her food and could not muster enough will to eat. Not when Braun was sitting right next to her.

She could feel him brush up against her. If it was by accident or not, she would never know. But such nearness made her nauseous. Her fiancé's killer was sitting next to her. Christine gripped the knife tightly in her hand, fighting the urge to sink it into his flesh and puncture his heart.

They had arrived at their destination, wherever that might be. But Braun had not allowed them to dock yet, nor had he allowed her to walk on deck.

Even if Christine could not see the town they were next to, she could hear it sometimes. When the song of the seagulls died down, she heard the chatter of people, the shouts of sailors as they prepared for docking. It soon became a background noise, making her aware that she was not alone in the world. The young woman sensed it as well—it was warmer here, the breeze against the ship gentle and did not provoke chills in her as it would in Angloa.

That afternoon, a man dressed in strange clothes had boarded their ship. Braun had been all smiles and politeness toward him as he showed him down to the dining area. He had made Christine dress in the finest dress he could find for her; a maroon gown that was at least a few decades old. The arms tapered out like an upside down triangle and it hugged her upper midsection too much, making her bosom more prominent. Christine gritted her teeth as both men spoke in a strange language, while looking at her.

The strange man wore a graying beard and dark eyes. His skin was a shade darker than hers and Braun's. He wore loose cashmere pants in blue and faded yellow. They were high and tied up with a broad sash of off-white. His shirt bore a damask dark magnolia and a white pattern. His shoes were a dark red with a pointed toe, curled up. Over this ensemble, the man wore a tunic, open at the front, reaching his ankles. The luscious green silk pooled around him like waves of water as he sat on the chair. What really ignited Christine's attention, however, was the peculiar headgear he wore on top and around his head. It appeared to be some type of white fabric—perhaps muslin—placed around his head like a great big turban. Then man felt her eyes on his and a small chuckle escaped him.

"It seems this young girl is a curious one," he stated in English. Christine was caught off guard as he spoke in her language. Braun laughed with him as well.

"That she is, Chaush-bashi," Braun said in a respectful tone. The man seemed to appreciate the title Braun bestowed upon him. Christine could only stare at them confused. But she was not offered any explanation as to what was going on. Braun sneaked a glance toward the young woman once more before he continued speaking.

"I take it you are pleased then?" he asked. The man merely nodded, a sly smile spreading on his lips.

"I will send an envoy tonight to give you details on your accommodation. At the end of this week all should be in order," he stated. Christine could not fight the feeling that they were somehow speaking of her.

"Has this anything to do with me?" she asked. Her voice never wavered, it sounded strong and determined. She managed to mask the uncertainty and growing fear she felt in the pit of her stomach. Braun took her arm in his hand and squeezed hard before leaning into her hear.

"Silence! You will only speak when spoken to from now on," he whispered. She clenched her jaw and sent him a murderous look. The strange man said something in his language and laughed. Braun swiftly laughed with him.

When dinner was over, she stared once more at her metal plate, her food untouched. The man left soon, after having drunk too many glasses of wine. He got out of the dining room of the ship with some help and Braun stared after him, a satisfied grin spreading on his face.

"Who was he?" Christine asked flatly. She received another stare from Braun.

"What did I tell you about speaking—," he started, only to be cut off by her.

"That I shall not speak unless spoken to. But that has never applied to you, Lord Braun. I am neither your servant nor your slave," she said in harsh tones. Her response managed to silence the proud man before her, who would not dare talk against her, or move a hand against her. Not yet.

"Who was he?" she asked again, more forcefully this time.

"A friend from long ago," Braun said, reminiscing in the past.

"That does not answer my question," she remarked dryly. Braun stared at her and took in the sight of her. Christine stared back, defiantly, not willing to squirm under his gaze—disgusting as it was. She had found new strength and determination in the knife gifted to her by Zoráida. Christine had grown more courageous as of late—more daring in her address. It was something Braun did not approve of.

"You will know in due time," Braun said enigmatically. And with that he went over to her, offering his arm to her as she stood up from the chair. Christine ignored it and instead took a handkerchief and wrapping a piece of meat in it.

"You escort will not be necessary, Lord Braun. I can walk to my chambers myself," she muttered. He watched half in amusement, half insulted as she took the piece of food, obviously intending to dine in her own quarters once more.

"Then do not blame me if you're assaulted in the corridors," he spat as she left. Christine turned around in the opened door. The look she sent him was of condensation and hatred.

"I would be safer in the company of wolves," she spat back, slamming the door hard behind her, rushing to her chamber. All the way there she gripped Zoraida's knife, safely tucked under her dress, tied to her thigh.

"Be careful what you wish for," Braun whispered after her.

 _March 12_ _th_ _, 1520 – Coast of Italy_

Lucius and Joseph had ben rowing south for a long while, staring at the coast while Tristan kept lookout at their backs. They did not know if they had been followed.

As dawn had arrived, bringing with it ominous clouds, the three men did not foresee a bright future. Soon, big drops started falling from the skies as the clouds opened up, letting the rain fall in a heavy downpour. They were all cold, tired and soaked to the bone. But they kept going forward, knowing that soon they would find Braun—and thus—Christine. It was the only thing that kept Tristan focused. He harbored no other thoughts than the memory of her.

He had found, during this trip, that the longer he was apart from her, the more he understood how important she was for him. At first, he had thought their relationship was only that of mutual understanding. He thought that the fire he had for her was only carnal lust; which he thought confirmed when they had kissed. But Tristan was sure that if he went to lay with another woman, he would not feel complete. It had to be Christine, always Christine. He realized—with a growing fear and anticipation—that the more time he spent away from her, the more his care grew for her. But Tristan had started to see, just as those around him, that the care he held for her, was something more; much more. He had never had such feelings before, and it scared him.

"When to you reckon we will reach this ancient harbor?" shouted Lucius through the rain. The sea was calm—to their relief—and the waves were moderate. Had the waves been any higher the boat would have long since tipped over.

"I think we should be there by evening," Tristan shouted back. The current had grown faster and the winds had picked up speed—all in their favor. He looked over at Joseph, who looked about ready to fall asleep.

"Why don't you let me take a turn, Joseph?" Tristan asked-concern laced his voice.

"No, you should not overexert your shoulder," said he. Tristan's shoulder did ache after the continuous practicing and last night's swordfight. But he'd rather take the pain in his shoulder than see Joseph fighting sleep.

"Move over. I want you alert once we arrive. You will be no good fighting if you can barely keep your head up," he said in a commanding voice. Joseph wanted to argue, but the look in Tristan's eyes and the tone of his voice made him immediately get out of his seat and switch with the masked one.

Once Tristan started working the oar, Lucius looked at him with a sly smile on his lips. "What about me?"

Tristan sent him a glare. It was obvious Lucius was not as tired as Joseph, that he could endure more for he was used to such hardships since the war. Joseph had fought with them as well, but he did not know the harsh life of a soldier like they did. He was the son of a great lord, while Tristan had—at first—been a lowly soldier raised from the ranks. Lucius was the son of a lowly baron and had risen fast in the ranks as well.

"Silence, Lucius," he snickered. The other could not hide the chuckle that escaped him. And so they continued rowing, setting into a practiced rhythm. Soon, Lucius started humming a song the soldiers used to sing when they marched. Joseph knew it as well and he promptly joined in. Before long, they sang as loud as their tired voices would allow them, almost as if shouting at the rain—defying the elements with their positive attitude. Tristan did not join in, instead he focused on rowing, trying to use it as meditation to ignore everything else. After a while, Joseph's voice died down, just as the rain did. He promptly fell asleep, under a coarse blanket that Tristan had placed on him.

When the afternoon fell, the temperature rose. The sky cleared and they could once more see the coastline without difficulty. In the distance, Tristan saw tall structures—ruins—rise from the ground. He recognized them, for he had seen them before.

"There!" he pointed. Joseph stirred from his sleep and Lucius turned around in his seat, looking into the distance. He saw some crumbling marble pillars in bad condition. There were remnants of what had once been a harbor. Its use had ceased around six to seven centuries earlier, due to the constant attack from Saracens arriving from both the east and the south.

As they got closer, the three men observed their surroundings, taking in the silence of the abandoned harbor. A river split through it, leading them all the way up to Rome. Crumbling pillars and other structures stood, now only a whisper of what they had been. Lucius could picture how the place had once looked and he concluded that it must have been an impressive sight to see.

"We will row up the river and stop shortly outside of the city gates. We will not walk in through the main gates; they will most likely stop us there. When night falls we sneak under the wall into the center. I am certain Cardinal Thorpe resides somewhere in the city. No doubt in a lavish residence or a palace," Tristan said, laying out the next step of their plan.

The trio soon traversed the rest of the old harbor, leaving it behind and continued up the Tiber River. They had left Angloa almost two weeks ago, their country had only seen masses and masses of white snow. The Mediterranean coast was entirely different; almost as if they had traveled forth in time several months. Here the air was warm and pleasant. As Tristan and now Joseph kept rowing, they had to stop at one time to shed their doublets, as they felt too warm in them.

"It feels as if we were at the end of April here," Joseph murmured to himself in wonder.

"It looks like it too," Lucius concurred in astonishment. The grass growing next to the river was a clear emerald shade. It looked soft and inviting as it swayed with the gentle breeze. Some flowers had started sprouting as well, painting the green carpet with reds, whites and shades of purple and yellow. The trees sported small leaves, dotting the crowns in bright greens as the leaves felt the warmth of the sun for the first time. The bushes had started blooming as well. It was a rare sight to behold for the Angloans, who had never seen the spring arrive before April.

They traveled up the river for a few hours, fighting the natural current until they saw the grand city in the distance. The sun was still high in the sky, even if it was afternoon.

"We wait here," Tristan said, steering the boat off to the side. The three of them jumped out. Lucius wasted no time and lay down in the soft grass, feeling the tiny strands brush against his warm back; heated by the constant rays of the sun. Tristan tied the boat to a bush growing just by the water while Joseph placed the blanket and provisions to the side. He lay down as well, deciding to take another nap. The sweat that had soaked through his body slowly dried as the sun warmed him.

Tristan plopped down next to them, exhausted as well. He searched through their provisions and took a big gulp of water as well as a piece of stale bread.

"Eat some, for I do not know when we will get the chance to do so again," he said, looking to his friends. But both Lucius and Joseph had dozed off, caressed by the spring breeze and the sunbeams. The corner of his mouth twitched in a small smile as he kept eating his bread. Tristan wrapped his cape around him, raising the hood to hide his mask. They were close to the road and he had no wish to scare the life out of some poor soul who happened to see him as they watered their horses or decided to take a nap in the grass as well.

He watched the straws next to the waterfront sway with the wind. Their movement was hypnotic and he drifted away from the world, consumed by the nature that surrounded him.

Tristan looked around, making sure that no one was close. Joseph and Lucius were fast asleep, not the sound of a thousand galloping horses would wake them. So he lowered his hood and started unlacing the back of his full-head mask. When the last of the laces were loosened, he took a deep breath and removed it.

For a moment he had forgotten how nice it felt to have the sun shine on his sweaty brow, or have the cool wind kiss his face. It was something he had not felt in a long time. He realized how he had taken it for granted before. Such a simple thing seemed heightened to him now, and it brought a sense of ecstasy to him. Tristan lay down, clutching the mask in his hand, feeling the grass touch the back of his head, the small straws caressing the side of his face as he turned to the side. When it tickled him, he shut his eyes, reveling in the sensation. It had been long since he had felt like this—too long. He breathed in the scent of earth, made fresh by recently fallen rain. The grass still bore some dew from the previous rain and it soaked his face, washing away the tension and fatigue. He took off one glove and then the next, letting his bare hands glide through the dewy meadow. His eyes were still closed and the only thing he could think of was Christine. The way nature was around him reminded him of her. The gentle chirp of a bird, the soft beams on his back, the fresh wind in his face—it all felt like her; her voice in his ear, her gaze on him, her touch, her scent…

His eyes wandered off to the mask once more, to his prison. He wished to cast it away one day. But one part of him was now afraid; would Christine accept the man he was under the mask? Would she accept his face? Would she look past it and still see him? He wondered what her reaction would be; perhaps anger, or repulsion. Perhaps she would react as so many had before her; with absolute fear at what she saw. It was a direction he did not wish his thoughts to wander. Tristan knew that he would have to unmask before her one day—especially if they were to share their lives together. But he did not look forward to that day.

As the sun started lowering on the sky, Lucius commenced stirring when the temperature dropped. Tristan put the mask back on before his friends saw him without it. He did not think they would like what they saw either. When he was putting on his second glove, Lucius sat up, stretching his well-rested body. He caught Tristan placing on his glove, but asked no questions. Instead, he looked at the sun, almost under the horizon.

"It is almost time," he stated.

"Wake Joseph," Tristan said, getting up to investigate the road leading to the city. It was better if it was empty. If not, they'd have to travel next to it, unseen.

When he returned he found a groggy Joseph, replacing his doublet, running his hands through his hair.

"We should keep off the road for now," he said, removing the hood of his cape.

"Do you know where we can get into the city?" asked Lucius. "Would it not be very guarded, considering it houses the Vatican as well?"

"There is a section of the wall where you can sneak under it. The guards don't know about it, yet. If we remain unseen no suspicion of our presence will arise," he said. "We leave the rest of the supplies here. Whatever we cannot carry on our backs will only slow us down. If we have to confront Braun and his men it will not help us anyway."

Joseph split the remaining bread with Lucius and they both downed whatever water was left. After, they hid the blanket and sac of supplies by the bush that held the boat. They tied the other end to another bush so that it would be hidden under the foliage. When the three were satisfied with having hidden the boat, they commenced walking toward the city.

Once the sun was gone, darkness fell fast. Tristan could still see Joseph and Lucius in the dark since their faces were so light. But they had difficulty spotting him with his black attire and black mask. Only the occasional flash of his white shirt under his doublet or the enigmatic eyes told them where he was. Sometimes, they mistook him for yet another shadow in the dark landscape.

In the distance they saw Rome; a mighty city during centuries. The lights of torches around the walls made it stand out against the enveloping night. They spotted the main entrance, where guards would stop anyone that entered and ask them question. Tristan had no doubt that their peculiar trio would have been stopped and perhaps even taken to the side, for further questioning. He was certain he would have been unmasked if that had been the case.

They trailed along the outer wall, ducking and hiding whenever a guard at the top passed with torches held high. They would press themselves against the stone, holding their breaths in hope that they would not be spotted.

After what seemed like hours, they finally arrived to the section of the wall that Tristan had been speaking of. It clung to the river and they had to wade through it. They swam with great effort against the current, always close to the great stone blocks just by the river. Tristan stopped once he recognized a marking in the stone.

"It is here," he said, turning to Lucius and Joseph.

"But there is only solid rock here," hissed Joseph, fighting to hold himself up, for he could not swim.

"We have to dive," Tristan deadpanned.

"What?!" Joseph could not believe what he was hearing. "I cannot swim and now you want me to dive? Have you gone completely mad?" he spat through the water, taking care in keeping his voice to a whisper. Tristan only sighed.

"I will go first. I have a rope that I will tie around myself. Once I reach the other end you may go after, following the rope, Joseph. Lucius, you will go last, making sure that no one sees us. Is all clear?" he said as he tugged at the rope he'd tied around his waist. He handed one end to Joseph and never waited for a reply before diving, his black form soon disappearing in the murky waters.

Joseph turned to Lucius. "He is mad! Foolish and mad!" he exclaimed, a trace of panic in his voice as he realized that it was his turn next.

"It took you long enough to figure out," Lucius answered with a smirk. "But look at it like this, when all of this is done, you will have an excellent story to tell your children and grandchildren," he chuckled. Joseph did not partake in Lucius humorous countenance.

" _If_ I live to tell this to anyone will be the greatest miracle," he growled, soon feeling a few tugs on the rope he held in his hands. Joseph said a quick prayer before handing it over to Lucius. He stared into the murky depths and decided that it was better to dive in there without thinking. So he took a deep breath, cursing the situation he found himself in and dove.

Joseph was blind, feeling the water tug at him in all directions. The only thing reassuring him was the taut rope, leading him through some sort of underwater tunnel. He had no idea how Tristan had found it. He also wondered how Tristan had managed to swim through it, for it was barely wide enough for him. Joseph kept dragging himself forward, using the rope as a guide. But when he never reached the end he started panicking, thinking that the tunnel would never end. His lungs started screaming in desperation and his blind senses only added to the growing fear and claustrophobia as he felt the walls come closer and closer. The young man never knew how long he had been there, but he started feeling his lungs give out on him.

He must have stopped for someone pushed him from the back. When Lucius realized that Joseph was stuck, or unmoving he grew worried. Joseph's vision blurred as the air he had withheld escaped in big bubbles, clinging to the roof of the underwater tunnel. He started inhaling water when a strong, gloved hand suddenly found his collar and swiftly pulled him up.

Tristan held the rope with one hand as he stared at an unmoving Joseph. His friend was still not breathing when Lucius surfaced in the small pool next to the wall. Some stone houses surrounded them, but the area was dark and no guards seemed to be in the close vicinity. Tristan cast away the rope once Lucius was by his side.

"Is he breathing?" Lucius said with alarm, rushing to check for himself.

"No," Tristan murmured, placing an ear to his chest. At least his heart was beating. "There must be some water in his lungs."

"What do we do?" Lucius' felt panic rising as Joseph lay there unmoving, his lips turning a shade bluer by the minute.

"Move aside," Tristan growled. He did not know what to do either. But he knew they had to do something, or they would lose Joseph.

He positioned himself next to his friend. The only logical solution he could find was to press on Joseph's chest as hard as he could, in hopes that it would stir his lungs enough. Tristan pressed, but nothing happened. He tried it again, harder this time. Joseph stirred somewhat, but no water came out.

"Help me turn him on his stomach," he whispered. They rolled Joseph over. Perhaps if he was on his stomach, with his airway cleared, the water would fall out. Tristan started compressing Joseph's back, hoping the water would come out. But still, nothing happened. They decided to roll him back. When they turned Joseph to his side, he started coughing, water spurting out of his lungs as he drew deep, audible breaths—one after another, until he was breathing normally again. Tristan helped him sit up, placing a hand behind his head, supporting his neck, as Joseph leaned forward, gasping for air.

"Never let me do that again!" he gasped in between breaths.

"You fool," Lucius hissed, relief lacing his voice. "Why did you stop?!"

"I… I do not know. My body would not respond. I panicked," he winced, his breathing calming down as the color slowly returned to his lips.

"Leave him be, Lucius. He is safe," Tristan said, making sure Joseph was breathing alright. When he looked at the young man a twinge of guilt overtook him.

"Perhaps it is best if I continue alone," he started, standing up and moving away from them. Lucius rose his head, looking at Tristan as if he had turned mad.

"Are you in jest, Tristan? Would you have us abandon you now? After having come so far?" Lucius argued, standing up. "It is an insult I will not bear."

"I agree with Lucius," Joseph rasped, still getting over the shock of having almost drowned.

"You almost died, Joseph." Tristan clenched his jaw, not particularly appreciative of their commitment to follow him at the moment. "And it was all because you followed me," he said, gritting his teeth.

"We promised we would help you find Christine. We gave our word to you, just as you gave yours to her. Would you have us break that word?" Lucius asked, recognizing the guilt and hurt so present in Tristan's eyes.

"Then I release you from any bound or word which has you obligated to me. You are free to go," he growled. He would not risk their lives. They were his _friends_ , his true friends.

Lucius gave off a sarcastic laugh. "It does not work that way. You and I both know it. We will see this thing through, whether you are willing or not, Tristan. Perhaps you have not realized it, but we keep together, we help each other; even if you have a higher title and more lands. We have fought side by side for years and we will not leave you so readily.

Tristan was about to argue back when Joseph stopped him.

"How many times have you not saved us on the battlefield? During the war, you put your life on the line countless times so that we may live. And just now, you saved my life again. We do not help you because we feel we must—we do it because we want to," he added timidly, his voice still raspy.

"That you would think otherwise is a grave insult to both me and Joseph," Lucius added. It was the first time he expressed openly the friendship he held with Tristan.

"We are brothers in arms, now and forever. I will not leave you to search for Christine yourself. She is my friend as well, if you remember. Albeit, we've had our differences, but I still care for her, as a friend and as a brother," Joseph said, rising to stand next to them. Tristan's lips tightened, it appeared the traumatic experience of almost having lost one of them had only reinforced the loyalty they felt toward him.

After a pregnant pause—where it looked as if he were deciding what to do with them—his tense shoulders finally relaxed. "Very well, but when I tell you to go away next time, no matter the situation, you will listen. Is that clear?" he said in a commanding voice. However, the small tug in the corner of his lips told otherwise. They both knew that Tristan would never openly admit that he cared for them. But they knew: words were never necessary.

"You have my word," they said in unison.

Joseph recovered and they started moving like silent shadows along the streets of Rome. When they spotted a group of soldiers on their way to the center, they hid in a particularly dark alley, where no light from the lit windows would reach them.

"Do you know exactly where Thorpe's residence would be?" asked Lucius as they sneaked through the small alleys. They felt like thieves, keeping away from the guards. But they argued it was better that way. Who knew, what if Mejías had sent word of them, proclaiming them to be escaped Angloan traitors? They could not take that chance and be captured.

"No. I only know he has a house here, to reside in for whenever he visits Rome and goes to the Vatican," he muttered.

"I cannot be sure to know of his whereabouts. But a good friend of my family resides here and keeps connections with the Papal States on behalf of Angloa. He once mentioned Thorpe's palace near Piazza Nicosia," Joseph whispered from the back. "If you know where that is we might know where Thorpe is," he continued. His voice was still hoarse from his coughing fit.

"We are not too far from there. It is by the river, going north from our current position," Tristan said, looking in that general direction.

Thus, they wasted no time and started moving with the river, careful to not be spotted by the guards that marched on the streets. It was too dark to discern the general architecture or look of the city. Every once in a while, they would stumble on an ancient building. The old Roman buildings were out in the open, not buried beneath the ground, as was the case in Angloa; where the Roman ruins would often be the foundation for the medieval buildings.

A small walk that could have taken no longer than fifteen minutes, seemed like ages for the trio. Especially for Tristan. Every second he hoped that Christine would be in that building, waiting for him. He hoped that she had not lost faith in him, knowing that he would indeed come after her. Tristan had tried to push away any thoughts regarding what Braun might have done to her. If he had touched as much as a hair on Christine, the disgraced lord would know no mercy.

They arrived at the piazza and Tristan immediately signaled out the building—no doubt a residence standing out, more lavish and luxurious than the rest. Thorpe had spared no expense when he had it built a few years ago.

The building, what looked like an irregular pentagon on closer inspection, was compromised of five floors. Guards stood posted at the front. They had no doubt that there were more patrolling throughout the building.

The trio continued keeping to the shadows, heading for the back of the residence. They hoped to find some sort of entrance. And, as luck would have it, some windows had been opened on the third floor, letting the spring air filter in through the rooms.

Tristan saw it as an opportunity. They waited a while, to figure out the pattern of the guards. Once they realized that only two guards passed by the back every ten or fifteen minutes, they saw their opportunity.

Tristan turned to face his friends. "I will scale the building and sneak in. Hopefully, Christine is in one of these rooms. If I am not out within the hour, you are to leave this place," he ordered.

"You mean to say that we cannot come with you?" Joseph sounded confused as he spoke.

"You are in no shape to scale three stories after almost drowning. And you, Lucius, I do not wish to question your abilities, but have you ever scaled a building such as this one before?" Tristan asked. While Joseph kept quiet, Lucius argued once more.

"I may not know how to scale buildings, but if you encounter trouble in there, it would be better to have two fighters rather than one." He was not about to let the masked man enter the lion's den without backing him up. But Tristan only shook his head.

"One hour," he said, in a harsher tone this time. He glanced over his shoulders, watching the second guard pass before he darted to the façade. Lucius was about to run after him when Joseph stopped him.

"We promised!" the younger man hissed. "Besides, Tristan is right; if all of us go in there and we get captured, no one will be able to get help."

Lucius could only stare as Tristan started scaling the stones with great ability. He gritted his teeth and narrowed his eyes. "Maybe, but I could still have gone with him, there is no need for the both of us to stay here," he muttered. "Tristan is not thinking straight, he is too blinded in his quest to find Christine," Lucius lamented.

Tristan soon made it to the third floor, slipping into the room, pushing past the billowing curtains. Before stepping into it, he made sure that no one was present. But the dark space was more silent than a grave.

He wasted little time in taking in the lavish decorations and several frescoes painted directly on some walls. Instead, the masked man started creeping along the rooms, making sure he was never spotted. As the minutes drifted by, he grew more frustrated. Room after room stood silent—empty. He slipped down to the second and first floors, only finding servant's quarters and stables, housing the horses. He then began working his way up to the fourth floor.

Suddenly, in a hallway—stuck close to the square courtyard in the middle of the residence, a door opened. The light of the room spilled out into the hallway and a man stepped out, talking to himself.

Tristan recognized that voice. It was Thorpe.

If he could not find Christine, then Thorpe would tell him where she was.

The shadow started tailing the cardinal, waiting for a moment when he would not be within earshot of the guards or servants.

Thorpe turned left and started walking into a desolate hallway. The old cardinal could not help but feel that he was being followed by something. He turned around two times, afraid he would find some assassin, sent there by his enemies—for he had many in Rome. Alas, he only found emptiness. But the second time he turned around, he thought he spotted a shadow, near a window. Thorpe reasoned it was his own paranoia playing tricks on him. As the cardinal turned around he came face to face with a black mask, from which behind two raging blue eyes stared him down with an eerie gaze. Before the cardinal could react, a gloved hand was placed over his mouth and he was pushed up against the wall.

" _Buona sera_ , eminence," Tristan growled in his ear. He was slightly pleased when Thorpe began to shiver like a frightened rabbit under his hold. The rage in his eyes radiated in big waves, threatening to consume the cardinal.

"I take it you know why I am here," Tristan continued, pressing harder against the smaller man when he tried to wiggle out of his iron grip. He studied him for a while, as if assessing the lesser man—judging every little detail he could find. There was a great deal of fear in Thorpe's eyes as he tried to avoid Tristan's. But he did not seem as if he expected him.

" _Where_ is she?" he said in a tone so dark and low that Thorpe felt as if the devil himself were talking into his ear. He was transported back to that day when Tristan had challenged Alistair to a duel. He never got to see who won; although it was quite evident who had.

The harsh hand was suddenly removed from his mouth, allowing him to breathe. Thorpe felt the sweat pearl at his temples as he could not find the courage to speak.

"Tell me now, lest you want to die in this instance!" Tristan exclaimed, taking great care in not speaking too loudly.

"I-I h-have no idea what you s-speak of," Thorpe stuttered, pressing against the wall, wishing it would consume him. He wanted nothing more than to get away from the demon before him.

Tristan's stomach dropped when he realized Thorpe was telling the truth. He had no idea what the masked man was referring to.

"I speak of Lord Oscar Braun—the traitor to the crown that you collaborated with, the man who kidnapped my fiancée!" In a hasty movement, Tristan had drawn a knife, holding its steel tip against Thorpe's neck, hoping the weapon would encourage him to speak up faster.

"Braun? Traitor? I-I had no idea he was the one," Thorpe said in earnest. Tristan remained silent as he cautiously eyed Thorpe. "I mean to say, I had my suspicions—of many at court, I might add. But I rather thought it was Athar, not Braun who was the traitor," Thorpe added. Tristan only snickered at this.

"Your lies have no effect on me. The moment Miss Vega's maid confessed you saw it as a tool to take down an adversary of yours, is that not so? Thomas Athar was one of the most powerful men in Angloa and with him out of the way it would only pave the way for you. Am I wrong? Or maybe you were in on the plot to overthrow the king. Once you realized it was about to happen you fled the country, in case it did not turn out in your favor," Tristan suggested, disgusted with the petty man before him. "It was a smart move, for the plot failed," he added, mocking the cardinal.

"I swear to you, my lord, that I never had a hand in such a plot! I only had suspicions and, as a man with morals and loyalty to my king, I acted on them. When evidence pointed against Athar, I only presented said evidence to the king!" he exclaimed, trying to save his reputation. Tristan did not care if he spoke lies or truth anymore.

"Where are Braun and my fiancée!" he demanded, raising his voice. He no longer cared if the guards heard him. Thorpe cowered more, feeling the tip of the knife imbed itself within his neck.

"They are not here, my lord, I promise you! I swear on all that is holy!" Thorpe exclaimed, shivering like a frightened animal. Tristan clenched his jaw, gritting his teeth.

"You swear, do you? Let us put that to the test. Where are your quarters?"

"One floor up, but—" Thorpe was cut short as Tristan put a hand over his mouth and started guiding him to the stairs, leading up to the fourth floor. The cardinal saw the stairs swish by as he was dragged up them. The masked man then took them through the hallway.

"Tell me which door is yours. I warn you, Thorpe, any tricks and I will not think twice before I skin you like the pig you are," the masked man growled in his ear. Thorpe had to concentrate hard to control his bladder, for it was threatening to spill its contents after that sentence. He only nodded vigorously. Thorpe showed Tristan the doors leading to his quarters.

They walked past his bed, to the small stand by the window. There he had some candles lit, a Bible, with a cover in mohair and a silver cross, hanging under an exquisite painting, showcasing a pieta. The rest of the chamber was richly decorated in fine textiles and other beautiful paintings. Tristan even wondered if some were by famous artists, such as the recently deceased da Vinci.

He dragged Thorpe to the Bible. "You are a God-fearing man, I hope," he said, the enigmatic eyes seemingly tearing into the very soul of the man. Thorpe could only nod.

"Then swear on this Bible that you told me the truth, that you do not house Braun or Christine Vega here. Swear that you do not know now or have never known of their whereabouts. It is well known that you were a good friend to Lord Braun. Thus, I have my suspicions," Tristan said, motioning for the cardinal to step forth to the little book that awaited him at the stand.

Cardinal Thorpe stared from Tristan to the Bible. He then looked at the cross, making its sign and stepping up to swear. But as he was about to place his palm on the soft cover, the man took a hesitant step back. He feared the wrath of his God more than he feared Tristan.

"I cannot swear then, because I might know where they are," Thorpe said, defeat laced his voice. But that defeat sounded like music to Tristan's ears. He had managed to pick up the trace on Christine's location. He was now closer to finding her.

"She is not here, that I can assure you. And neither is Braun. I never kept _that close_ relations with him. He did me some favors, which I returned. I assure you I never thought him a traitor. But if Lord Braun has kidnapped her and is fleeing Angloa, there might only be one place he can head, safe from persecution," Thorpe continued. He relaxed when Tristan made no move to stop him, placing all his attention in what the man was saying.

"When he was younger, Lord Braun attended a court overseas—first as a liaison, to strengthen our ties, then as a full fleshed ambassador, some twenty years ago. He made powerful friends there, friendships and connections that lasted throughout the years. He will have gone there to seek shelter; which they will provide, of course. You see, Braun had assets purchased. He kept them through a loyal servant that took care of his possessions. He must be going there to reclaim them now." Thorpe waited for Tristan to speak. But what he saw in his eyes was a racing mind, trying to make sense of the words. The grip he had on Thorpe lessened slightly. The night seemed darker as, in the back of his mind, Tristan suddenly realized that Christine was not there, but someplace else, far away from his reach.

"Where is this place?" Thorpe relaxed as he noticed a hint of desperation in Tristan's voice; the fool was blinded by that young woman.

"It is a place few people from our part of the world ever get to see," Thorpe snickered, personal resent lacing his voice. He now took his time answering the question, savoring each second that passed, tormenting Tristan further.

"Tell me where it is," Tristan said, each word turning heavier in his mouth as they escaped his lips. The old man would, for some reason, not answer right away. It caused Tristan to lose his patience.

"If you do not tell me where she is, I will remove my mask. The sight of you turning mad will be amusing to watch," he growled. The words escaped like venom from his mouth, filled with rage and malice. Thorpe had only heard rumors about Tristan's face. He had no wish to toy with the sight that lay beneath.

"Braun has most likely taken Miss Vega to Constantinople," Thorpe said. The words were rushed, for Tristan's hand had started to travel to the laces behind his head. But once those words were uttered, his hand stopped, as if some invisible force had frozen it in place.

Thorpe could not help himself as he took pleasure in watching the otherwise composed man crumble slightly.

"I suppose he has taken her as security. Slaves from our corner of the world are highly sought after, especially women for the aristocrat's Harems. Although, if she is lucky, she might end up at the Sultan's," he mused. The knife against his throat was removed as Tristan stepped back.

"Constantinople?" The words echoed in that silent room as Tristan came to terms with where Christine was being taken. A place he had once called home. It had been a place he had loved, at one time. A place he had been happy with Sofia. Tristan thought he would spend his whole life living happily there. But it seemed fate had other plans in store for him.

Suddenly, without realizing it, Tristan let go of the cardinal who darted to the door, screaming at the top of his lungs. But he never ran after him. He knew it was too late, the servants or guards would have heard those shouts.

He calmed himself, staring at the window to his left. Tristan opened them, ready to climb out and exit the same way he had come. As soon as he was over the edge, guards ran into the room, shouting at each other in Italian to look for the masked intruder. Tristan was thankful for his muscles, allowing him to rapidly climb down to the street, where he would no doubt soon meet up with Joseph and Lucius.

One guard noticed the opened window and looked down. His mouth gaped open as he saw a figure in black swiftly climbing down the side of the house. It took him a full minute before he turned around to his friends, to signal the location of Tristan.

He heard them, looming over the edge of the window. Someone aimed a knife at him, trying to make Tristan lose his grip. He clung to the side of the house, still on the second floor. Tristan looked up, gritting his teeth as most of them had disappeared. They had no doubt decided to warn their friends. He moved faster, hoping Lucius and Joseph were still hiding.

Shouts could be heard from the other side of the residence and it was all Tristan needed; he took a deep breath, measured the distance to the ground and jumped back. The masked man landed softly on his feet, with the sure footing of a cat. He looked around, not met by his friends. Just as he was about to disappear, a swarm of guards rounded the corner, weapons drawn. Swords pointed at his chest and some even carried pistols, aiming carefully at his head.

"Surrender or we fire!" one of them shouted in Italian. Tristan gritted his teeth, not sure what to do. He had no chance against the pistols, unless Joseph or Lucius had seen him from their hiding place. If they created a diversion, the masked man could fight off the guards long enough to escape.

But it was not the case. As the guards circled him, still carefully aiming their weapons at him, some broke through the circle, holding another prisoner.

It was Lucius, with his hands tied behind his back.


	6. Chapter 6

**WHISPERS OF THE PAST**

 _Chapter 6_

 _September 15_ _th_ _, 1467 – Wessport_

"We had to get the stone from another quarry, Your Majesty. The first one is in full use as it is," said the architect as they went over the plans. The thick paper placed in front of them showed intricate architectural designs, all working together to form a vision.

"Understandable," muttered Philip as he kept looking at the elegant arches and light that streamed in from the tall windows. There was something about the gentleness of the light illuminating that space which spoke to him. The Blue Room was one of the first sections to be completed.

His heart swelled as his dream of a new capital emerged from the growing Palace. It was a slow process that had taken years to complete. And many more years were required before it was finished. But he was patient and would wait. The sheer size of the fortress showcased the arrogance of the king, and he did little to hide it. Yet, in some small corner of his heart, Philip would miss Adelton Hall and Cadherra—where he had grown up with his brother. Alas, every thought of that once home was like plunging the knife deeper. His son's image tore a hole in him, an unexplainable sadness that would never completely go away.

He excused himself from the architect and his builders. Philip would leave from Wessport to Cadherra—where court was still held. He gazed over the small fishing huts that clung to the waterfront. As word got out that the king had planned to move court to the north, both noblemen and commoners had started preparing for a move. While the aristocrats made sure that elegant townhouses were built as close to the palace as possible, the lower classes moved north, building their houses with their own hands.

The city grew, extending its arms over the open field like the tentacles of an octopus. Slowly but surely it would come together.

Philip pulled the coat closer around him as the cold winds hit him square in the face. They brought the fragrance of the ocean with them, the salt and water washed away the smell of fish and seagull. He moved to the docks as the waves danced violently in unison with the winds. When the people manning the docks saw the handsome king arrive, escorted only by two trusted knights, they all bowed deeply, not daring to look at him directly. Philip's midnight hair got tousled by the wind and his clean-shaven face felt the first drops of rain as the heavens opened up to the oncoming storm.

He boarded the grand ship, the sails up and ready for the monarch before setting out to sea. His captain greeted him as he went below deck.

Marianne sat by the window, a wax candle lit so that she could read her book in peace. The last few years had been hard on her. For after the loss of her young son the mother had spiraled into a small depression. But she herself had finally managed to break loose from it. Her love and affection toward Philip had only grown after. And the couple found comfort in each other's presence. She knew that her husband had started worrying about an heir. He wasn't as young as he used to be—as if the sands of time were running out faster now. Philip did not look it, but he felt considerably older. Without the laughter of his son, being in Adelton had become unbearable. So the king had decided to travel around the country, making trips to each region, seeing the state they were in. He had done a lot of good in just a few years and his popularity among the people was growing.

His portrait had started gracing some homes of his nobles, even if the king insisted they were not necessary, for he had never been that vain. Athar had soon seen the same treatment as he gave the king wise and just council.

"Marianne," he smiled as he saw his beautiful wife. She put the book away to go and kiss him.

"Is all in order?" she asked.

"We will be able to move here by next summer. It will be a fresh start. Wessport will be a new and prospering capital," Philip smiled as he envisioned the future.

"Have you spoken to Magnus yet?" Marianne usually ignored the subject, but she felt the need to reconsolidate the two arrogant brothers. Philip turned sour at the name of his younger brother; sour and sad.

"No. He has retired up north with Rebecca and the Triennes. Sometimes I feel as if she would poison his mind against me!" he exclaimed. "She is quite the opposite of you, Marianne."

"I think they both have suffered after the passing of their daughter. They turn to vanity and power for solace while we turned to each other and the mission to better this country," Marianne smiled.

"I do not like the path Magnus is going down." Philip still remembered how they would hunt in Raven's Grove when they were younger. Those days seemed a lifetime ago. It made him sad to think that he could not have his brother by his side. "I feel he is taking out his anger on me for the loss of both our children; for not running away when the plague hit us. Maybe he has a poin—"

"Shh! Do not speak such words. Without our help, more than half the population would have perished. And what would have happened to those who lived after? You did the right thing, Philip. Never think otherwise, and never regret such a choice. We have to be there for Magnus and show him the right path as well. He is still your brother."

"Yes. But I think the biggest reason for his aversion to me, or for his despise towards me is that I did not give him the Cadherra province. He was not happy that I handed it over to Lord Vega and made him a Count," Philip sighed. "But there is no one else but Vega that I trust with that place. I know he will take good care of it."

"Then there is nothing more to say, my love."

Marianne glanced over at the bed that had been made for them. They were leaving port, sailing south to New London where they were currently staying.

"Why don't you undress and relax. We could lay down in bed, you and I," she said softly, looking at him. Marianne still saw that young and strong 30-year-old that she had fallen in love with. She ignored the gray hairs that had started forming around his temples or the deepened wrinkles around his mouth and eyes. He was still as handsome and as charming as ever in her eyes. And she was still very willing to go to bed with him.

A fire lit in Philips eyes and a smile spread on his lips as he understood what she meant. He pulled her into a warm embrace, whispering sweet words in her ear as he slowly moved to kiss her neck. Philip delighted in his wife's shivers, happy that the romance in their marriage was far from dying out.

 _June 6_ _th_ _, 1468 – Western Sorossa_

Another cry sounded in the mansion as Rebecca Fell tried to calm herself. "How can you _not_ lift a finger in my family's defense?" she shouted at her husband. The servants of the middle-aged prince quietly snuck away, not too eager to be caught in the crossfire of yet another fight.

"Because my brother is the _king_!" Magnus exclaimed. "His word is law! If he does not wish to grant these northern lands to your kin then there is little I can do," he growled, getting tired of her constant nagging.

Rebecca scoffed at him, raising a finger to point accusingly at her husband. "And you call yourself a man. I cannot believe you and Philip are related," she spat. "He would have done anything to please Marianne, and you know it!" she screamed, ready to hurl something else at him. Magnus tried to ignore the hurtful words. He was tired of constantly being compared to his brother—his perfect brother, his wise brother. Everything Philip did was always good, but Magnus never got such praise. He was left to fend for himself in the shadow of his sibling.

"Even after losing his child he did not let it put him down. And what did you do?" Rebecca screamed with tears in her eyes thinking of the day she had to say goodbye to her little daughter. "You do nothing! You have no purpose!" She flayed her arms around her as she continued insulting her husband. "Maybe I am the one who should wear the trousers in this family. For you have no ambition—"

"Ambition for what, woman? And be very mindful of what you aim to say. For if it is what I am thinking, then such thoughts are treasonous," Magnus growled, growing tired of her high pitched voice, always sounding in his ear, always whispering. Her lust for money and power had already gotten him into trouble several times, he did not need her to meddle more in his affairs.

"No," she snarled at him. "I would not have you be king, for you would only make a pathetic one." It seemed to be enough for Magnus as he reached out to her grabbing her hard by both arms as if aiming to strike her. But he stopped himself when he saw where he was going.

Rebecca only laughed at his hesitation, a laugh that sounded more like a cackle to him. "You cannot even discipline your wife, you worthless piece of dirt! I would have been better off marrying a peasant!" she clawed her way out of his grasp, shutting the door firmly behind her as she stormed away from their shared chamber.

Magnus sank down in his chair, bitter. He was bitter toward his wife, bitter toward his brother and anyone else in his immediate vicinity. A hatred brewed within him, something that had only grown since the court had been moved to Wessport. The moment Adelton Hall was left to Lord Vega, his troubles began. He lost his power and holding at court, along with any previous alliances as his wife's family started scheming for more and more. Magnus was now associated with them, and as tainted as them—even if he had done nothing wrong.

But, perhaps Rebecca was right, was all that would run through his mind. Perhaps he had to regain his lost power and rise once more, maybe even defy his arrogant brother.

 _January 13_ _th_ _, 1469 – Southern Castell_

"…he insulted me openly, Magnus. Will you allow that?" Rebecca paced the room, as she so often did. They were far up north, near Castell. Her father and uncles were present as she retold of her latest visit to the capital—where Magnus would no longer go. He had not seen his brother in years, he could not stand the sight of seeing a man he practically detested in good humor, adored by those who surrounded him.

Alas, his wife had other thoughts. She wished to lavish in the indulgences of the city; its parties and newly founded merchant districts. Some lower lords had plotted to steal a shipment of currency from the crown, traveling south to New London. They had been caught red-handed, with ties to Rebecca's family. As she had been in the capital, she herself had been suspected of involvement. The king had personally interrogated her, releasing her on good faith as there was no proof of her involvement in the end. The thieves had been executed in private, away from public eye.

"The humiliation is too much to bear," she said, sorrow lacing her voice.

"But were you involved?" the aged prince asked.

Her father rose up, seemingly insulted on his daughter's behalf. "How dare you? You may be the brother of the king, but it gives you no right to think so of my daughter—of your own wife!"

"She may be my wife and your daughter. But if my brother interrogated her himself—"

"He struck me!" Rebecca exclaimed. It was rushed and anyone else might've seen her words were far from true.

"What?!" Magnus now rose from his seat, ire taking hold at the thought of someone striking his Rebecca. "That cannot be." But he was not too inclined to think well of his brother at that moment.

"When I would not confess he lost his temper and struck me."

"But I thought my brother was just and fair…" Magnus trailed off, his bitterness toward his brother rising.

"Oh my sweet and innocent husband," Rebecca cooed as she neared him. "You have not seen him in years—seen how he has changed. What people say about him are mere lies, told out of fear that his many spies in this kingdom will hear and report it to him." She caressed his face. Magnus grew angrier by the moment.

"If what you say is true then he must have gone mad with power!" he exclaimed. Angloa had indeed prospered since court had been moved to Wessport. The government and the crown were now more involved than ever in international matters. News traveled to the coastal town faster by ship than it would have by horse.

"A man like that should not rule," Rebecca's older uncle said carefully, watching slowly at Magnus' reaction. They were all watching what he would say, hoping his next few words would bring them joy.

"My brother has done good for this country, Lord Warren. But if his portrayal of himself is false, if he is as scheming and manipulating as you say—if he would concoct lies about my wife and her family then it has to end! Who knows what he could turn into within a few years!" Magnus had cast aside any sense of logic, letting only his emotions rule now.

"My love," Rebecca whispered in his ear. "Perhaps we could put a stop to it and secure the country for the people once more." Magnus was blinded by her soft smile and gentle eyes. He never saw the brutal lie that she so expertly placed before him. Had he known then, he would have shivered at the cruelty of the woman he shared his bed with.

"What? No, I have no claim to the throne," Magnus suddenly said.

"Philip is old, Your Highness. He and the queen have yet not given us any heirs. It is only a matter of time before the crown passes over to you," Lord Warren said in a cold tone. "He is over fifty now, patience will be our virtue and when _you_ are king, no one will ever disrespect your wife like that again." Magnus let himself be fooled and brainwashed by the men and women before him. He sucked in their false words like a sponge, never realizing the reality behind them.

"A matter of time…" he trailed off. "And I could become king." It was a thought he had fought against his whole life. Magnus knew he had no right to the throne. He was the _second_ son: the spare. Yet, his eyes clouded suddenly, as something new arose inside him—a yearning and lust for power. It was a sickness that had already claimed his wife and her kinsmen. Magnus let the darkness envelop him, never realizing it in the first place.

* * *

 _March 13_ _th_ _, 1520 – Rome_

The sun broke through the early morning mist, warming up the sleepy city that was Rome.

In a dark cell, closely guarded by the local guard of the city, were two men. Lucius had been handcuffed to the iron bars while Tristan was chained to the cold stone wall.

Tristan could feel his head weigh heavy as his eyes closed slowly. Cardinal Thorpe had shown no mercy when they were captured. After having turned them over to the armed forces of the city, he had specified that they were to be treated as harshly as possible. The cardinal had sneaked a big coin purse into the hands of the Sergeant who had greedily accepted it.

"Wake up! You are to answer our questions!" screamed someone in Italian. Lucius couldn't care less, for all he could think of was getting out of there.

Tristan kept to himself, never speaking, never breaking. The guards were more wary of him, not even daring to remove his mask. As they had brought them in they remarked on the eerie similarity the two bore to some men that had been reported escaping from a ship arriving from Málaga. The ship's captain, Juan Mejias, had sent out a disturbing message to the local authorities that said men were escaped traitors who had tried to overthrow the Angloan king.

When they had made sure that both men were yet awake, the guards decided to take a break. As dawn was upon them, they were soon to change their post, ready to hit the pillow after a long night.

"Where is Joseph?" Tristan rasped as soon as they were left alone. Somewhere water was dripping—a hollow echo sounded in the murky dungeon. Only one corner saw a thin beam of light filter through, the ray as hollow as the sound of the dripping water. The cold crept up on the two men and they could not help but shiver, like so many others in that dungeon. But they did not lament or moan in pain. Some prisoners lay amidst the thin layer of hay spread on the stone ground, wailing in misery after having been tortured.

"I don't know," Lucius answered. His voice escaped him like a mere whisper. "I went after you as you climbed the façade. Some guards had spotted you and I took them out. Joseph stayed put—as watch—in case some guards snuck up on me. When Thorpe came out screaming that you were there, I was set upon by a large group, rounding the corner of the house. When I looked back, Joseph was gone. I do not think they took him, he must have escaped." The words sounded more like Lucius was trying to reassure himself.

"Let us hope so…" Tristan trailed off. His mind was lost in a thoughtless cloud. He felt ten years older, every waking moment after his talk with Thorpe had sent his mind spinning.

"Braun is taking Christine to Constantinople," he said after a long silence. Lucius felt his mouth open slightly at the words.

"What?!" the cry echoed, bouncing off the humid walls. It pierced the stillness of their cell with a metallic rip. Tristan's sigh followed shortly after. It was laced with impatience, anger and something else—a deep-set worry that embedded itself within his core.

"Thorpe says he's had no connection with Braun. Whether that is true or not is unimportant now. But he told the truth about their whereabouts. At least, that is where he thinks they are heading. And I believe him."

The tight iron handcuffs around his wrists did not hurt him. The fact that he was locked to the cold wall gave him little pain in comparison to the knowledge of what Christine might be heading for. But Tristan never told Lucius—he never mentioned that his fiancée might be sold off like cattle to the highest bidder.

Having traveled he had seen much. Tristan had seen the injustices of the Inquisition, their mere mention managed to bring strong and powerful men to their knees. But he had also seen the horror of slavery, the misery, and tragedy it brought. If that was where Christine was headed, he feared losing her forever. And the masked man did not wish to share that with Lucius. He did not wish to share the sheer horror he felt at that moment, the pain and fright that grew in the pit of his stomach.

Lucius looked at Tristan who hung off his cuffs, securing him to the wall. He never knew what went through the masked man's mind, but he trusted in him. He knew they would get to Constantinople and save Christine.

"We will sail there and we will rescue her, Tristan. Braun must be desperate if he is willing to travel so far." The hope in Lucius' voice felt like another blow to him. He was almost ashamed that Lucius held more hope of finding Christine than he himself did. Tristan was afraid that he would not find the same Christine that he kissed goodbye all those weeks ago.

"If we get out of here," Tristan gritted, pulling against the restraints. The iron chains collided with the stone wall, rattling eerily, the sound spreading as a muffled whisper in the dungeon.

Lucius rested his forehead against the bars of their cell. "If we can explain ourselves we should be released within a few days," he reasoned.

"They will not let us explain ourselves, not when I practically broke into the residence of a cardinal—an ordained bishop of the church," Tristan growled to himself.

"You couldn't be more right, Hawthorne," came a slithering voice from the shadow.

Both men tensed up as a figure dressed in red appeared in the yellow light of the torches. His voice bounced off the walls, a hollow echo, just like that drop of water.

" _Buon dia_ , my lord," Thorpe teased, marveling at the sight before him. He could not be happier to see Tristan Hawthorne in chains. When none of the men answered, Thorpe continued.

"I must say, the sight of you in chains gives me great pleasure," Thorpe mused, walking closer to the iron bars. He cast a quick glance at Lucius, not even bothering to speak to him. Tristan felt those small eyes try to penetrate through his shield, never managing to break the wall he had built around himself.

"Then you have not known much pleasure in this world, Thorpe," Tristan rasped, looking up to meet the Cardinal's gaze with his own. The moment their eyes met Thorpe took a step back, despite himself. The anger and ire in those blue orbs scared him more than he cared to admit.

"I suspect you wonder what will happen to you now," Thorpe trailed off. He had no reason to reveal what awaited them. But after the great insult of having been beset in his own home, the cardinal saw the matter as personal. When none of the men reacted to his words he continued, offended that they did not even bother to defend themselves.

"You, Lord Hawthorne, are faced with crimes of threatening a servant of the church and breaking into his home. Your friend, Sir Chaeld, is charged with helping you. The consequences of your trial will not bode well for you," Thorpe mused.

"A trial is all we need to prove our innocence," Lucius spat. "When the tribunal understands who we are we will be released in an instance."

"And why would they do that?" the cardinal asked, his voice condescending as he turned to speak to Lucius for the first time.

"We chase a traitor to the crown, a traitor that you might be involved with, from what I understand. If anything, this trial will only serve to instigate an investigation into your affairs with Braun, Cardinal Thorpe," Lucius growled, pulling at his restraints.

His words made Thorpe grow flustered, his chins jumping up and down as he scrambled for words to defend himself with.

"Why, I never—" Thorpe began, only cut short once more by Lucius.

"Tristan and I have done nothing wrong. You are the one who should fall under suspicion," Lucius continued.

"I have no blot on my character, sir!" Thorpe exclaimed. "I am as moral as they come and I assure you I never had any illegal nor treasonous dealings with Lord Braun," he continued. "You two, on the other hand, are suspected of having taken part in the plot to overthrow King James Fell and his court. We have a witness who picked you up in Málaga. He has more than enough to keep you here for quite a while." The Cardinal rambled away, growing redder by the minute. It seemed he was convincing himself more than anyone else.

"You know as well as I that we never played a part in overthrowing His Majesty," Tristan spoke up after having stayed silent for a while. He had silently cursed at Lucius, his friend's words could indeed keep them there longer. It seemed Thorpe was not aware what a trial could mean for him. If the Cardinal could stop the trial, they could indeed be in for some serious danger.

Thorpe turned to face the masked man again, a sinister scowl growing on his face, followed by a mocking grin. "Well, how am I to know? I was not there at the hour of the coup. I was here, in Rome, as many will confirm. You, on the other hand, have no witnesses. Bringing someone from Wessport will take time. Time, my dear Count, I do not believe you have. Did you not say Braun had _taken_ that fiancée of yours?"

Lucius pulled at his restraint, not knowing how Tristan could remain so calm before such words. But neither Lucius nor the cardinal saw the seething hatred concealed beneath the leather mask.

"Try to keep me here, Thorpe, and it will be the biggest mistake of your life." Tristan's words sounded grave as he spoke. His voice dropped and sounded like a predatory growl. It made Lucius' skin crawl as he saw the two eyes turn into fire. Thorpe took a hesitant step back, grateful for the bars and chains that separated them.

There were no more words exchanged, for Thorpe felt the sudden urge to leave that infernal prison. As he turned his back to those men, he secretly made the sign of the cross, feeling relief—as if the Lord would keep him safe from the masked demon that now haunted him wherever he looked.

 _March 19_ _th_ _, 1520 – Constantinople, Ottoman Empire_

Sights, sounds and smells she had never seen all invaded her five senses quicker than the flash of lightning.

The harbor was wide and open, neat little houses clinging to the edge of the maritime walk.

They were at the harbor of Theodosius, on the south side of the peninsula where the once mighty Byzantium stood—now under new rule, for at least 70 years. It faced the Sea of Marmara.

In one distant part of the harbor, great ships were put together. Long wooden planks were carefully bent to fit the frame of the wooden structures, soon to be sailing on the Mediterranean. She turned around to see two stone walls stretching out into the waters on either side of the harbor, almost enclosing it save one opening. Two towers stood as guards at the entrance, deciding which ships could enter and which could not.

Theirs was Angloan, it would enter.

Christine let her lavender eyes take in everything as they slowly neared the docks, soon to set foot upon this new land—exotic and foreign. She, a young woman who had never stepped foot outside of Angloa, now found herself on the other side of the continent. It was a distressing thought, but—at the same time—it opened her eyes up to a world she had never been aware of before. There was something else that lay beyond her little island to the west.

More tall and wide towers framed the façade of the harbor, no doubt controlling who entered and who left.

As their ship docked, Braun and his men prepared to leave the vessel. One thing Christine was sure of as she took in the strangely dressed men and women—the tall, thin towers in the distance, poking into the clouds on the hill upon which the city lay; this was not Rome.

"I have prepared accommodations for us. Someone will prepare you for the coming days," Braun murmured close to her ear as he watched her take in the sight of the city.

Christine turned to face him, too distraught to be offended by his nearness. When her brow furrowed slightly, he could not help his own eyebrow rise in question.

"Where are we?" was all she could muster, afraid what the answer might be.

Braun only smiled-an enigmatic smile that made her cold to the core. "You will know in due time," he answered.

She turned again and took a deep breath as the walkway from the ship to the docks was lowered. They were about to descend.

Braun offered his arm to her and the blonde never hesitated as she blatantly refused it. With her head held high, she walked off the ship herself, letting her eyes wander the crowd.

She saw a young boy in tattered old gray pants and a thin coat thrown over his shoulders run after a group of older boys, screaming in a language she had never heard before. She saw an old man, propped up against the walls framing the city, begging for a coin. He was a frail thing, holding his wooden cup up to the pedestrians that never seemed to see him. Christine saw some women, accompanied by men with lavish beards. The women wore tunics in vibrant colors, in fine silk. They bore veils over their heads and their faces were covered from the nose and down, only revealing exuberant eyes—one look enough to attract the attention of any man who stumbled by.

The air smelled of spices, fish, and sea. Seagulls could be heard over the loud chatter. In the distance, a strange instrument played, its tunes floated like the waves of the ocean through the air.

Suddenly, a palanquin came to halt right in front of her. The red box awaited the young woman as she stared at it. Christine had never seen its likeness. Braun stepped over to her and opened the door for Christine to climb in.

"My lady, this will take you to your accommodations," he explained, waiting impatiently for her to get in. But Christine refused. She did not trust in Braun, she hated and despised him. However, what security had she that he would just not lead her to some strange place and strand her there?

"I will not get into that!" she spat, crossing her arms. Christine tried to muster up what little dignity she had left. Her torn gown, dirty from having been worn for so long did little to add to her composure. Her disheveled hair and thinning face stared back at him with hatred. Some people sneaked a few stares as they passed her.

Christine did not care.

Braun took a firm grip on her arm and dragged her closer to him. "You will get into the palanquin or I will make you, you spoiled wench!" he hissed in her face. But Christine still refused. As Braun lost his patience he ordered his men to force the young woman into the ornate box. The bearers watched in silent astonishment and amusement as the young foreigner was pushed into the palanquin, fighting and screaming. Braun smoothed his thinning hair back, getting frustrated.

He turned to one of the bearers and signaled for him to go. "Take her away from here. You know of where I speak. Send word to me when she's safely delivered," he snapped, quickly getting into a palanquin of his own. He was eager to arrive in his home and change into more comfortable and clean clothes.

Christine fell back as the vehicle rose from the ground. Once it set into motion she stopped banging on the wooden walls. Her hand went to her thigh where Zoráida's knife rested safely. She no longer had any doubts about using it. This was her chance to flee—far away from Braun. But she hesitated. Christine had no idea where she was and she did not even understand the language that was spoken.

A small window to her left offered her view of the streets as they walked up the hill of the city. Exotic sights and smells were all that invaded her mind. She felt her thoughts spinning as her eyes were confused by what they saw: houses with rounded arches, colorful doorways, men and women dressed in fine yet strange clothes. Stands shadowed by colorful tents.

The road seemed never-ending. And then she saw it, in the distance, between some houses. The sight took her breath away. A building unlike anything she had ever seen rose up amongst the other structures that surrounded it. Half domes were extending from the larger central dome that carried on smaller semi-dome exedras. The exterior was clad in render, tinted yellow and red. The dome was carried by spherical triangular pendentives, transitioning the circular structure of the dome to the rectangular base below. Graceful buttresses reinforced this structure, stretching out like the legs of a spider, enveloping around the central building.

Elegant minarets; slender towers built in limestone stretched high up in the sky, surrounding the central building.

Christine had never seen anything as impressive and massive in her life. The alien structure seemed to call her, somewhere in her memory Christine felt that she should recognize it. But the thought quickly faded as a stone house blocked her view. She decided to close the window and block out the surrounding world.

It seemed like an eternity until the palanquin finally stopped. The door was opened and the young Angloan was coaxed out. She stood in an arched doorway, guarded by several fierce looking men. The building rose up high like another tower in the city, elegant yet simple. A woman approached her, her face covered by a blue veil. She bowed once she reached Christine. As she bowed, the vast red doors before them opened, to reveal an exquisite courtyard. It was rectangular in shape, stretching far. A rectangular pool was in the middle, encircled by low hedges—greener than the greenest pastures she had ever seen. Elegant and intricate pillars in light stone stood close to the walls, giving a shaded walking area; it was the gallery. The second floor with wide rounded arches offered a view from the upper floor.

"My lady, it is my pleasure to welcome you," said the shorter woman in a harsh accent. Her light eyes contrasted harshly with the darker tone of her skin. The look in her eyes was harsh, void of any friendliness or compassion. She seemed used to seeing lost and confused women like Christine.

"Where is this place?" Christine demanded, trying to mask the fear she held.

"You have arrived at his lordship's house—one of his houses. He wishes to have you settled in before presenting you," the woman spoke. "Follow me," she commanded, turning to walk in through the gates, never waiting for the girl to answer.

Christine stared at her, watching the enigmatic woman walk into what looked like paradise. Flowers in all colors lined the hedges, green ivy slithered up along the walls of the courtyard. In the middle of the pool, a fountain came to life. It felt like she was to make the decision of her life. Christine was certain that if she ran now, they would keep her under harsh surveillance, find Zoraida's knife and crush any hope for her to flee in the future.

There was another choice—a harsher choice. She could follow that woman to wherever she was taking her, accept what lay beyond that courtyard and plant a seed for her future escape.

In the flash of a second—as quickly as she had started thinking about it, Christine made up her mind. She would follow that woman, take whatever was thrown at her and eventually make her way back. She would not step down now.

Her torn gown trailed after her, attracting the eyes of the guards as she strolled in through the gates—claustrophobia grabbing hold as the doors promptly shut behind her. The blazing sun burned into every nook and cranny of her exposed skin.

Christine focused on the footsteps of the woman, setting into the same rhythm, ignoring everything else. She took note of how many ornate corridors they walked through, of how many lavish corners they rounded. Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, they stopped in front of a door, shaped like a horseshoe. A see-through blue fabric draped the closed entrance. The woman with the light eyes pushed the fabric away as she unlocked it. She turned and waited for Christine to enter.

"Go!" she demanded after the young Angloan hesitated. Christine glared as she walked past, trying to control her shivers as yet another door was closed behind her, this time it was locked as well.

 _March 15_ _th_ _, Rome_

"Hello?" Lucius rasped again. He felt like he had been calling out nonstop for days, which he had. In a sense. But the guards ignored them. He suspected it was Thorpe's doing.

"At least give us some water!" he shouted at the top of his lungs, rattling his chains as much as he could. One irritated guard came to scream at him in Italian to stop. Lucius had no clue as to what insult might be thrown his way, not that he cared much at that point.

"Aqua! Aqua!" he begged, hoping his Latin would help him there. He only got a sinister snarl as the guard shook his head and offered yet another insult. The man eyed Lucius curiously before looking over at Tristan. The masked man's head had been hanging low for the last day as if he'd been sleeping. Tristan had indeed offered little company in form of talking as they spent their hours wasting away in their cell. But Lucius was certain his friend was not sleeping.

The guard felt his curiosity ignite as he stared at the laces of the mask. There had been bets placed amongst them on what hid behind that leather mask. Some said it was the face of the devil, others assured that it was a deformed monstrosity—so twisted that looking at it would drive you mad. One guard jokingly said it was a woman, disguising herself as a man. But one look at Tristan's physique sent the other guards snickering. Evelio, the guard on duty, thought that maybe he could get ahead of his friends and win the bet. If he could unmask Tristan now, he would know where to place his money. What harm could it do if the Angloan was to be unmasked before trial anyway? The only reason they had not removed his mask yet was that none had dared to get close.

But now… apparently sleeping, Evelio would take his chance. The night was dark and he brought his torch with him, to light up the cell. Lucius' brows furrowed as he saw the guard unlock the door and step into the cell, heading toward Tristan.

"What are you doing?" Lucius demanded, standing up, pulling at the chains. His heart sped up as the guard's eyes widened, nearing Tristan's relaxed form.

"Just a look…" Evelio murmured to himself, his hand reaching for the laces that secured the mask tightly in place.

"No, stop!" Lucius cried out. "Tristan, react god damn it!" he shouted, pulling hard at the restraints, feeling the iron dig into his wrists, opening up two fresh wounds. The already chafed skin required little pressure before the blood started gushing.

Evelio's hand shook as he untied the knot, slowly pulling the laces free. He licked his lips, his eyes widening as he saw Tristan's skin at the nape of his neck. He was caught completely off guard as the head swung up, two blazing eyes staring right into his. Evelio's breath caught in his throat as he stared into the endless blue depths.

He felt like he was face to face with a ruthless lion, ready to devour him. A deep intake of air was all the warning he received before Tristan's forehead came crashing down on his nose, sending the guard spiraling down onto the hay covered floor. A loud shout sounded as his left hand came to grip his nose. Blood gushed out like a red waterfall, the drips quickly tainting the already dirty floor. Painful insults and verbal attacks sounded like a muffled echo through the dungeons, accompanied by Lucius' astonished laugh and Tristan's amused grin.

The other guards soon came to see what the commotion was all about. When they found Evelio nursing his injured nose—blood covering most of his gloved hands, arms and front—they cursed at Tristan. One of them quickly went to grab his masked head, dragging it up, baring his throat.

"Let's see how cocky you are without that mask," the guard growled in Italian, motioning for the other guard to remove the piece of leather. Tristan tried to struggle free from the iron grip over him, but he never managed. He growled in frustration as two hands impatiently went for the laces, wanting to loosen them up a bit more before removing the hood.

But just as the guard was about to complete his task, a deep voice sounded through the cell, behind him. It broke through the dull, muffled filter that seemed to always be present in the dungeon and was loud and clear.

"Stop!" someone commanded in Italian. The guards froze while Tristan relaxed. When they turned around they were faced with Joseph Winston, standing next to another gentleman. And, there in the background, with his head hung low, was Cardinal Thorpe, his face twisted into a deep frown.

* * *

 **A/N: Sorry for the delay in updates! I had a kind reader PM me and realized I had uploaded the documents to the site but not actually posted them. I was working on formatting and going over the grammar and then it completely went past me to update the fic itself (silly me thought I had kind of done it by uploading the chapter to my documents haha XD).**

 **Anyway, here comes the next chapter!**

 **Please leave a review if you liked it!**


	7. Chapter 7

**WHISPERS OF THE PAST**

 _Chapter 7_

 _July 14_ _th_ _, 1480 – Wessport_

The servant wiped away the sweat from Marianne's brow as she bit together her teeth to fight off the pain.

"You need to push, Your Majesty!" said the midwife, standing at the foot of the bed. The queen pushed with all her might, eager for the baby to come out of her womb. Marianne cried out in pain. She had forgotten the pains of pregnancy, it had been decades since given birth to Edmund. Many at court were surprised as the middle-aged woman announced her pregnancy. They thought her too old to be able to carry any more children. It was therefore that Rebecca and Magnus Fell became rather dismayed as the announcement of the royal pregnancy was finally revealed.

The country held its breath as they all hoped it would be a son—an heir to the throne.

"Once more, Your Majesty!" the midwife said again. Marianne cried out once more, biting through the tears and pain, wanting to secure the future for her husband's lineage. She pushed with all her might, relief catching in her chest as she heard the cries of a child. The tired woman fell back into the pillows, utterly exhausted from the whole process. She felt that the air entering her lungs was not enough and she momentarily fainted.

"Give her some space!" the midwife cried out as the servants moved away from their queen. "Open a window!" someone shouted.

Philip was pacing back and forth outside of that room, listening to every word he could hear through the doors. A nurse walked through them, holding the child in her arms.

"You have a daughter, Sire," she said. Her face was neutral, awaiting the reaction of the king. Philip took the crying child and looked down on the small form. He had never imagined he could be a father at an advanced age like sixty. His wife had blessed him with that gift. The king smiled down at his daughter, gently kissing her soft forehead, his dark voice surprisingly calming the child. He fell into the habit of rocking her in his arms—a painful memory of Edmund entered his mind.

"And my wife?" he said, worried that he was not yet allowed entry into the chamber. The nurse grew quiet, not quite knowing what to say. "She has momentarily fainted, Your Majesty," she whispered.

"Fainted?!"

"Well, having children at such an age will take its toll on your wife. But I believe she will be fine," the nurse smiled, walking back to check on the queen. Philip looked around the chamber, staring helplessly at the closed doors. His heart sped up at the thought of losing Marianne in childbirth. Thomas Athar was present, together with some new additions to the court—Lord Anthony Fawkes being one of them.

"Oh cheer up, Sire!" he skidded over, placing a friendly hand on the king's shoulder. "Your wife is a strong northerner, she will be up in a jiffy," Fawkes said in a most cheerful tone. Athar offered some reassuring words as well.

"We have faith in Her Majesty, as should you, Sire." But Philip did not feel reassured then. He held his daughter, waiting for the midwife to come out. Seconds turned to minutes. And when half an hour had passed by, the doors opened.

"The queen asks for you," the old midwife said, smiling at Philip as she did so."

He immediately rushed in through the doors, toward the bed, still holding his crying daughter in his hands.

"Philip!" Marianne said at the sight of her love. His hair was gray now, his trimmed goatee was almost white. There were more wrinkles and faded colors. But the love had not faded. He sat down next to her, taking her hand. Marianne, in her forties, looked faded from the struggles of childbirth. Her lips were pale and her face sweaty as her golden locks clung to around her face.

"We are parents!" Philip exclaimed, holding the child for her to see. Marianne let out a laugh, tears streaming from her eyes.

"Is it a son?" she asked after a while. "Have I given you an heir?" her voice sounded hopeful.

"No, but you have given me a beautiful daughter," Philip smiled. He did not worry if it was a boy or not. He would love the child all the same. Marianne took the baby in her arms, staring at its now calm face.

"What will you name it?" she asked him.

"You will name her. It is your right."

"Marianne stared at the sweet face, drinking in the sight of her little angel. "Carina," she whispered with love. "She shall be named Carina."

One of the nurses excused herself, exiting the room to give the king and queen some space—or so she said. Her countenance attracted some suspicion, mostly from Athar himself. As she slithered out of the local room outside of the chamber, he followed her through the halls of the palace until he saw her enter a room at the end of the corridor.

"Magnus?" Athar whispered to himself. The quarters at that end of the palace did indeed house the younger brother of Philip, who had managed to crawl back into the good graces of his brother. Many had protested, but Philip had a weak spot for his younger sibling.

Athar waited a bit before quietly slipping right up against the door, pressing his ear against it.

"…a girl," he heard the muted voice of the nurse speak. There were some sighs of relief that quickly followed.

"Follow this man and he will reward you. He will take you out another way," came the harsh voice of a woman—Rebecca. Athar could not mistake that voice anywhere. He remembered when she had been held in Wessport after some suspected involvement in a theft against the crown. She had never been shown guilty, but Athar had his own suspicions.

A silence followed before someone spoke again. "We were lucky this time. If they have a child again—and it is a son, all our dreams of you taking the throne die with that child," Rebecca sneered.

"And why would not a daughter take the throne as readily?" Magnus retorted.

Athar could hear Rebecca scoff. "Her mother's relatives have lost their holding in society. She would have little backing. If a daughter had a powerful mother, with powerful relatives, it would be another story. If I gave birth to a daughter, she could very well become queen. But as long as Marianne gives birth to girls, we are safe," Rebecca snickered. Athar could not believe what he was hearing—Magnus had aspirations to the throne? And it seemed Rebecca and her family backed him.

* * *

 _March 19_ _th_ _, 1520 - Constantinople_

The room was vast and open, rectangular in shape. Halfway through it, three small steps led up to a raised plateau. There a gallery of tall, arched windows opened up to reveal a breathtaking view of the city. In the distance, the vast dome structure rose up to meet the blue sky, the slender pillars around it were like spikes, pointing at the heavens.

Curtains in see-through fabrics danced as the wind gently pushed past the arched windows. The openings were lined with yellow and blue-painted marble. Decorative mosaics graced the lower part of the walls while the upper part saw either fabric with geometric patterns or a foreign scripture sown into it. Even the floor saw intricate patterns placed into the stone, where blue and limestone mosaics blended together to form geometrical shapes, complementing the walls. Elegant furniture in dark wood was placed about the room. A sitting area with a low table in copper and colorful cushions surrounding it was on the lower end of the room while the upper part saw a bed, also draped with the ever-present see-through fabric. It made the bed appear almost hazy, behind all that cloth. Its lines and shapes were greatly muted as the light blue fabric swayed in the gentle breeze.

In the middle of the room, on a Persian carpet in shades of red and gold, stood Christine hugging her body, fighting the tears. She had been stripped completely naked. Water had been thrown at her as some harsh-eyed women had scrubbed her clean, not even bothering to respect the privacy of her body. When they saw the healing wounds on her back, they wrinkled their noses.

Once they were done they left her there, cold, shivering and confused. None had bothered to hand her a piece of cloth to cover herself, so Christine had draped her arms around her bosom, in order to save some of her modesty. Most women left, save the one that had led her to the room, to begin with.

Once the doors shut, she turned to face the confused young woman. The veil was removed, revealing harsh lips and an aquiline nose. The face had seen a few summers already and the deep-set eyes never revealed what the woman thought. It appeared, however, that she took little pity on Christine's situation.

"I am Melike, head caretaker of this house. While you stay here you will obey my every command. Is that understood?" came the harsh voice. Christine never answered, refusing to let the woman hear the tremble in her voice.

"His lordship has bestowed you a great honor in taking you here. It is his wish that you be complacent," she continued, slowly pacing the room.

Christine did not understand the words of the woman; what did she mean by them? She suspected little would be explained if she asked.

"Where are my clothes?" she demanded after a long silence. Zoráida's knife had been hidden in the torn gown; a knife she very much wanted to regain. The woman's face twisted into a frown.

"I never allowed you to ask me questions, girl!" Melike shouted at her. "Know your place or I shall have you whipped!" she said with a twinge of ferocity. Christine was not surprised by the answer, but she stepped back, nevertheless.

The doors suddenly opened and Melike's eyes widened as someone stepped inside. She gave a graceful bow as Oscar Braun appeared, dressed in strange clothes; a tunic with a long vest over it. He looked less like an Angloan lord and more like one of the wealthier inhabitants of the city.

"That will be all, Melike. Thank you," Braun said stiffly, never taking his eyes off Christine's naked back as the woman quietly disappeared behind the drapes, and walked out of the room.

Christine was aware of her vulnerable state as she heard his footsteps nearing. She was not, however, prepared when he draped a thin tunic over her shoulders. Braun turned the young girl to face him, a stiff smile placed on his lips—never quite reaching his eyes.

"Forgive Melike, she can be harsh sometimes, but she is a good servant," Braun offered. Christine quickly draped the fabric around her, feeling at ease as she was covered.

"Where is my dress?" she asked again, her tone as flat as the expression in her eyes. She was determined to not let any emotion of anger or fear show through.

"It was a torn old rag, I had it thrown away," Braun explained, waving a hand in the air as he walked to the window, taking in the view. Christine felt her hope dwindle as she thought about Zoráida's knife.

"Why am I here?"

Braun never turned around. He appeared mesmerized by the city below them. A part of him seemed to be reminiscing.

"Have you figured out yet where we are?" He still kept his back to her. Christine fought hard not to push him over the edge then and there. The fall was high enough to kill him—if he did not land on one of the closer rooftops hugging the tall tower.

"No." She refused to play his game. Christine was no fool. She was certain Braun was trying to act nice to get her to lower her walls. She would not allow him in.

"Constantinople," was all he said, turning as the word left his lips. "I was the ambassador at the Sultan's court here once, many years ago. Angloa has always kept in good relations with the Ottomans—"

" _Why_ am I here?" Braun halted as Christine could care less about his past. He seemed unnerved by her rude interruption.

"No reason, my dear. No reason…" he trailed off. Christine felt the hairs at the back of her neck rise when those eerie words escaped him. She knew he lied, making her believe her fate was worse than she'd imagined.

When Braun saw that she would offer him little conversation he made ready to leave. "This is to be your room now, Miss Vega. I hope you will like it. Melike will tend to your every need if you learn to listen and obey her as well."

He tried to smile, but it came off as unnatural. Something was certain, he wanted to get on her good side.

He moved to the door, moving past the drapes that covered it. Before closing it behind him he turned to her, one last time.

"I have great plans for you, my dear. If you are willing to learn, your future will be a bright one," he explained, his eyes twinkling as the door was shut and locked.

 _March 15_ _th_ _, Rome_

"Release him," said the tall man next to Lucius. He was past his golden years. But there was a youthful vigor ever present in his bright green eyes. His graying goatee was neatly trimmed and combed in place as he turned to face the guards again.

"Release him." The words sounded more severe now as his voice dropped a few tones. Joseph stared at the Italian guards, fighting the urge to knock them over. The guards did not question the man and did as he bade, releasing the hold they had over Tristan.

"Who are you?" one of them asked. Evelio eyed the man suspiciously—he knew he was another Angloan, but he could not tell more. Suddenly, the older gentleman took something out of his doublet, unfolding a parchment, with several seals hanging off from it at the bottom.

"I present my credentials," he said haughtily. He then handed over another document, not as elaborate, hastily written—from the looks of it. Tristan and Lucius remained silent as they saw the scene unfold before them.

The guard took the first document and his eyes bulged as he read it twice. "My lord!" he exclaimed, bowing deeply, giving the parchment back. Evelio had read it as well, he recognized the seal of the _Holy See_.

"As you can see, I am Angloan—as are the men in those cells. They fall under my jurisdiction here and are to be taken to the embassy at once," he declared in a slightly accented Italian.

"Not when your own Cardinal Thorpe had him sent here—"

"Read the other piece of paper." Harsh eyes bore through Evelio. The guard did as the man bade, reading a statement by Thorpe's own hand, declaring that he was dropping the charges against Tristan and Joseph. Cardinal Thorpe himself had slipped away unnoticed the moment his presence was no longer required. The older man did not seem to care much, though.

Below that statement, another one, written by the captain of the guard, confirmed that the masked man and his accomplice were in fact not the sought traitors of Angloa. They had thus been held in that prison unjustly. When the guards realized this they all turned pale.

"I believe the _Count of Cadherra_ and _Baron_ Chaeld would appreciate it if you unlocked their handcuffs now," the man spat, offended at the sight of the restrained men. Lucius showed signs of dehydration, his lips parched and chapped. He bore dark circles under his eyes and he was bleeding from his wrists.

The man glanced over at Tristan, taking in the masked enigma for the first time—a man he had heard much about. Tristan did not show the same signs of exhaustion and dehydration as Lucius. But, then again, they could barely see an inch of him due to the mask and clothes covering his body.

Evelio and his friends turned paler as they realized they had titled nobility locked in their dungeon. Only lowly thieves and some beggars would end up there. They had never housed aristocrats before. The Angloans heard the loud gulps of the Italians as they realized their mistake.

The cuffs were swiftly removed. Tristan retied the laces of his mask while Lucius was given water. Tristan felt how his body protested—especially his arms. He'd had them at an unnatural angle for so long that when they fell to his side, the blood rushed to them, numbing both limbs. He never voiced his discomfort.

"Follow me, gentlemen," the older man said, showing the way. Before they were away from the guards, he turned to them once more. "The way you have treated these men is outrageous. Do not be surprised if I call for your removal!" he exclaimed, anger both toward the guards, but it was evident that he housed some for Lucius and Tristan as well.

Evelio and his friends all simply nodded, not daring to utter a word. He looked over at the enigmatic masked man, then realizing that he would never discover what hid behind that mask. But, somehow, Evelio did not mind that much. A shiver coursed through him and he looked away, hoping to never see Tristan again.

Tristan and Lucius followed the haughty Angloan and Joseph through the narrow corridors of the dungeon. The poorly lit space enveloped them as they walked in silence. The same hollow drop of water seemed to penetrate through the whole area as they reached the surface. The lit torches placed on the humid walls did little to illuminate the dingy walk. They could hear the rattle of chains as they passed more cells. Tristan's jaw tensed as he saw the poor souls, rotting away in their prison—there was little he could do for them.

Once they reached the surface, the air of the frisky night hit both men—fresh air they had not felt in days. Lucius took a deep breath, opening his mouth and closing his eyes as he delighted in the light of the moon, shining its silver beam over his visage.

"Another day in that cell and I would've gone mad," Lucius sighed to himself. The man who had helped them out turned to face them, furious.

"Be thankful we came when we did. Were it not for Joseph I wonder what nightmare would have happened to you!" he exclaimed once they were further away from the prison. "I have dealt with a lot of things since arriving here, but trying to rescue two men from being sent to a prison? After having br _oken_ into a _Cardinal's house_?" The more he spoke the more offended he seemed.

Tristan stepped forward, not liking the offense in his voice. "I believe introductions are in order," he began. His voice still low and menacing, as if waiting to prowl on the man if he kept pestering him with his outbursts. Joseph was about to step in and explain the situation, but the older man stopped him.

"Not on my part, I have heard all about you, Lord Hawthorne," he said. There was a slight hint of awe lacing his voice; awe he did not wish to show at that moment. "Your fame precedes you," was all he allowed himself to say.

"You leave me at a disadvantage," Tristan rasped. "You know all about me, it seems, yet I have not had the pleasure of even knowing your name," he trailed off.

"I must concur with Lord Hawthorne. I am also left at a disadvantage," Lucius added.

The older gentleman took a sharp look at them, almost like he was a father scolding his children. "My name is Theodor Glovendale, a distant cousin of Thomas Athar, of whom I am sure you have heard," he began. "I am the Angloan ambassador here in Rome. I keep relations between our country and His Holiness the Pope," he explained further, taking great pride in his title. "And you men just put me through a lot of difficulties these past few days—nay! A _world_ of difficulty!" he continued, folding his agitated hands behind his back as they would not stop moving while he talked. Tristan found it quite amusing, yet, he remained as silent and stoic as ever.

"We are in your debt then, my lord," Lucius quickly added. Tristan merely nodded in unison. But Theodor did not seem pleased with this.

"You will follow me to my personal residence where I wish to have a talk with you. A very _long_ talk."

"I would be most obliged, my lord, but I am afraid we are bound for the east," Tristan's dark tone sounded. Theodor would have none of it.

"My boy, I have just saved you from certain public humiliation, to be sure. Now, would you prefer to return to that dungeon to be unmasked and paraded at dawn—following a most assured unjust trial? Or would you rather come home to my residence where we can sit down in peace and sort this whole mess out?" Although none saw it, a quizzical eyebrow rose behind the mask at the appellation "my boy". Tristan neared Theodor, his jaw squared, his gaze growing fiercer by the minute.

"I have no time to waste, my lord. It is of utmost importance that I travel east tonight—"

"And how will you travel east, Lord Hawthorne? By magic? As far as I know, and from what Joseph has told me, you have little to no money left—you are stranded here in Rome," Theodor interrupted. "I would think a smart and brilliant strategist like yourself would realize that by now, unless your judgment is clouded by something… or someone."

Silence followed, Tristan's wit seemed to have foregone him, for he saw truth in Theodor's words. However, he could not get fast enough to Christine.

"Follow me and I will arrange accommodations on my personal vessel—to whatever destination you wish." Theodor could not help a small, roguish grin escape. When it seemed as if Tristan was still questioning if he should trust the Angloan ambassador, Theodor reached into his cape, pulling out a familiar sword, with an elegant handle that could only belong to one man.

"If you will not take my word, take that of your friend," Theodor said, handing Tristan's sword over to him, it had been taken away as they had been captured.

Joseph stepped forward. "I have known Lord Glovendale since childhood, and he has been a close friend of my family for years. I trust him, Tristan," he said, sincerity apparent in his otherwise tired features.

Tristan stared at the sword and then into the green eyes of Glovendale. It only took him a moment to decide on what to do. He accepted the sword with a slight nod, his arrogant countenance gone as he relaxed a little. Lucius seemed to relax as well. Glovendale, although still seemingly severe with them, seemed slightly happier now.

"This way," he said as he started walking toward a horse and carriage, parked at the end of the narrow street. There was nothing more to say. Tristan only hoped he would not be detained further.

 _March 23_ _rd_ _– Constantinople_

The covers were yanked from her sleeping form as a now familiar voice hissed in her ear.

"Up!" it said, bringing Christine out of her sleep, ridden with nightmares and into her terrifying reality.

She got up from the comfortable bed, dressed in nothing but a nightgown. The light yellow fabric flowed freely around her naked feet as she walked away from the bed. Immediately, an armless tunic in shades of blue and pink was placed around her shoulders. A bowl with water with fresh rose petals was placed before her to wash her face, followed by a towel, which she used to dry herself with.

Christine was soon dressed in elaborate tunics. Vibrant colors in silk and brocade hugged her slender form. Her hair was done up, in a style she was still trying to get used to. The headpiece was still uncomfortable for her to wear, and the loose scarf that could be used as a veil to cover her face always irritated her.

After the servants had dressed her—while Melike watched impatiently—the harsh Ottoman woman would have a small table brought in. A woman would arrive shortly, to would tutor Christine in the local etiquette and manners, as well as the politics and language. It was an arduous process, and Christine had no idea why this was done. But, it being the fourth day, she started realizing they were training her for something. Whenever she tried to ask the other women, they would remain silent or change the subject.

Melike would never leave her side, always present throughout the day. Christine had not yet been allowed to leave her room. She would gaze out the open windows, look down on the street. Carriages filled with hay would usually pass every day at midday and then three hours later. Five times a day there would be strange calls coming from the peaks around the domed building—Hagia Sophia, as the locals called it.

But, secretly, even if Melike was harsh, even if her tutors were severe and the clothes restricting, Christine didn't mind. She was happy to be away from Braun, for he had not visited her since their arrival.

The door shut as her tutor left the room, leaving only Christine and Melike. Both women had learned to be distant. Christine did everything Melike asked, and Melike did not pester her as much. The only time she had a moment to herself, she would plot an escape route to the harbor. Without them knowing, Christine had continued hiding things of value in the room. She would sell it for safe passage on a ship going west.

"Sit!" Melike suddenly said, motioning for the low copper brass table, surrounded by cushions. Christine did as Melike bade and gracefully sat down, as she had been taught. Melike sat at the other end. An elegant silver pot of boiling water had been brought, the steam escaping the small curved nozzle. A small container in clear glass stood next to it.

"Pour me some tea," Melike said, her ever watchful eyes waiting to see what Christine did. The young woman carelessly took a spoonful of the ground tea leaves and poured them into a small, elegant cup that she placed in front of Melike.

"No!"

"No?"

"Again."

Christine poured the ground tea back and started over.

"No!" Melike repeated, seeming to enjoy shouting at Christine. The latter squared her jaw and bit down hard as not to argue back. She started once more, but once again Melike exclaimed "No!" Christine put the cup down with an earthshattering bang, staring right into Melike's haughty eyes.

"Tell me what you want me to do and I will do it. But do not play games with me!" she practically yelled, her voice was filled with ire and passion. The fake façade of calm and composure threatened to burst like a volcano as Melike teased her.

Melike leaned forward, a deep frown setting on her face, her lips in a thin line. "Again!" she simply said as her mouth curled into a sinister grin. "Or I shall have you whipped." The last words made Christine's heart skip a beat. The second day there, Melike had indeed been true to her word. Christine had argued against her and the woman had whipped her herself, in front of the servants. She had taken her down to the courtyard so all could see her humiliation. The pain had gone away quickly but the tears stayed longer.

She stared at the cup and tea, trying to figure out what it was that Melike wanted. Christine argued to herself that it wasn't the order in which she had started composing the cup—that did not seem to matter much to Melike. The first time she had poured the tea leaves first, the second she had poured the boiling water. The third time, Christine had put the leaves into the elegant brass pot. She looked at Melike for a long while and then at the messy table in front of them.

Suddenly it hit her like a lightning bolt. For the last few days, the young woman had been pulled in all directions, her mind filled with new knowledge about her new surroundings. She knew they were training her for something, but not what. However, as her tutor would teach her the history or the language, she would also teach her how to make conversation. It didn't matter what she said; her tutor could be talking about the most boring subject in the universe, but the way she delivered it made it always seem interesting. The same went for the other areas of study; her tutor would always stress on Christine's mode of presentation—it didn't matter how much she actually learned unless she couldn't learn how to coat it in excessive elegance and finery.

And, now, Christine understood what Melike wanted. She wanted the same refined and elegant presentation as she poured the cup of tea. She was sure this moment was a sort of test, seeing if Christine understood what they had actually been teaching her all this time. She had to pour the cup of tea in a way that completely captured Melike's attention.

Christine had no idea what to do. Her face was calm, but inside her heart started beating faster as panic settled in. How could she pour the tea in a way that would please Melike? It was impossible. If it had been a man who did not know her, Christine was sure she could use the advantage of her striking eyes and feminine figure to win him over. But perhaps this lesson was to teach the young woman to rely on more than just her looks.

She reached for a new cup. The long and slender fingers gently caressed the porcelain, as if Christine were touching the wings of a butterfly. She did it with utter care and almost compassion. She still felt stiff—the whole ordeal seemed unnatural. So how could she make it genuine? Christine realized she was pouring the tea to another woman. She had to make Melike feel at home and comfortable at that moment in her presence—however much she might despise her.

So Christine imagined it was her mother she was serving.

An image of Amelia conjured up in her mind; the woman who had always been by her side, the woman she looked up to and missed dearly. A warm feeling of love spread in her heart as she thought of her mother, and it spread to her gestures.

Melike rose an eyebrow as the woman in front of her grew more relaxed and her motions more fluid. But she was caught off guard as—when the cup of tea was offered to her—the young girl gave her a genuine smile, a gentle tug in her lips; the kind of smile one saved for those closest. The Ottoman woman got a warm feeling in her bosom as she reached out to grab the cup of tea—like it was her own offspring handing it to her.

Christine watched as Melike sipped the tea. The leaves had been in the pot for too long, and would probably make the brew taste bitter, but Melike didn't seem to mind. She put down the porcelain and stayed silent for a moment.

"Good," was all she offered with the same stern expression. It was almost as if she was reluctant to praise Christine.

Melike then rose from the seat. "Follow me," she said, heading for the door. Christine stared at the woman in confusion. But upon realizing that she would be able to leave the room, she swiftly put the teapot down and followed suit.

 _March 15_ _th_ _– Rome_

In a dimly lit room, where the light of the moon penetrated the thick curtains, four men sat. A fireplace saw the flames dance as the smoke escaped up the chimney. The warm flickering light clashed with the silver beams of the moon, waltzing together in a strange dance.

The leather couches lined in burgundy fabric seemed dull, as was the decoration in the room. From the paintings to the furnishings and color scheme Tristan, Joseph and Lucius felt as if they had traveled back in time at least a century. The wood was darkened by its usage and the air was as dull as the colors on the walls and furniture. The wooden beams in the roof looked black as they contrasted against the lighter oak floor. A large carpet in the same burgundy tone was sprawled on the floor, looking thin and flimsy. It looked byzantine and Tristan wondered if it might have been made before Constantinople fell, some seventy years ago.

There were no tapestries hanging on the wall, instead, rich velvet drapes had been hung, to keep the cold out.

Theodor had been sitting silently in his fauteuil for a long while, examining Tristan and Lucius closely. While Tristan had loosely crossed his legs, setting into a comfortable position, Lucius could not relax under the stern gaze of the ambassador.

"I wonder if you are mad or just foolish," Theodor said in a stern voice after a while.

"I believe a bit of both…," Lucius excused, rolling his thumbs to seem occupied. Tristan never answered.

Theodor slammed both hands hard on the cushioned armrests and got up, the ire seemingly taking hold of him. He clenched his features as he paced about the room—trying to control his frustrations. For such conduct was not befitting a diplomat.

"Do you have any idea of the mess I've had to go through to get you out of that jail?!" he finally shouted, turning to face both men. Lucius remained silent as he found himself at loss for words. He looked like a child being scolded by his parents. Tristan hadn't moved a muscle.

"Had not Joseph come to me I fear you both would've been lost, of course not before being humiliated by those men. It was the request of the Cardinal that you, Lord Hawthorne, be unmasked at dawn and paraded through the streets of the city before being taken to trial. Can you imagine the humiliation?"

"I cannot," Tristan answered dryly. His nonchalant and arrogant air only seemed to further infuriate Theodor.

"What on earth were you thinking? Where, in your right state of mind, did you ever think you could just waltz into the residence of a Cardinal, and an ordained bishop at that?!" the ambassador continued. He ran his fingers through his hair, still amazed that he'd managed to get them out. Were it not for his contacts in the city he did not know what he would've done.

Finally, after having taken the impending scolding, Tristan started talking, ready to explain himself.

"Lord Glovendale, Lucius and I are thankful for your interception. We understand the severity of our situation. But you must understand why we broke in," he stated, his voice dropping a few tones as it became more severe. There was a look in Tristan's eyes that made Theodor lose his nerve. He became uncomfortable all of a sudden, standing so close to that masked man. So he inched away, as casually as he could. Tristan's presence grew as his sense of urgency became more severe.

"Winston did not have time to mention the specifics, only that Cardinal Thorpe might know the whereabouts of someone important to you," he began, swiftly interrupted by Tristan.

"Cardinal Thorpe might be involved in the attempted coup against King James Fell that happened a few weeks ago. If that is the case, he is considered a traitor to the crown, and my actions against him were mild in comparison to what they could've been." Before Glovendale could interrupt him, Tristan continued, as calm as before. But there seemed to be a storm brewing under that composed exterior.

"I took part in stopping a treasonous plot before it succeeded, Lord Oscar Braun was the mastermind behind it. He must have taken my involvement personal for he swore he would make me pay. I did not think much of it at the time until I returned to my townhouse to find my fiancée gone, most of the maids raped and then killed mercilessly," he said, not sparing on the gory details. Tristan wanted to make sure that Glovendale understood the gravity of the situation.

"I assumed her to be kidnapped, of course. So before thinking twice, I went after her. We took a ship to Málaga. Word reached of what had happened in Wessport and by the time we boarded a Spanish Captain's ship, he already saw us as potential suspects. So we fled before arriving in port. We followed the coastline and then took the river up until arriving at the walls of the city. Once finding the residence of Cardinal Thorpe, I decided to go in myself. Lucius must not have listened to me and kept to the façade of the house. Joseph did, however, and that is why we sit here tonight. If Cardinal Thorpe was involved in the plot to overthrow His Majesty, I deduced that he would hide Lord Braun and Miss Vega. Alas, they were not there and I myself interrogated the Cardinal once I caught him. He eventually gave me a destination and that is where I now plan to go," Tristan finished. "That is all I can give you, Lord Glovendale." He sat still and quiet after that, as he usually did, almost asking Theodor to question him. But what he received was a look of astonishment at the incredible tale he had just heard.

"That…is a lot to take in, Hawthorne," Theodor said after a long silence. The moonbeams now invaded the room, conquering the dying flames of the fireplace as night seemed to conquer the last remnants of a dying sun. The winds gently rattled the windows, wanting to burst into the room. Joseph and Lucius thought it best not to say much more. Tristan had indeed summarized their little adventure perfectly. They themselves were amazed to hear their last few weeks. Their little trip sounded more and more like a knight's tale as he chased his princess, kidnapped by the fierce dragon or the evil black knight.

"You said you would provide a ship for us. I am still waiting for that promise," Tristan continued as Theodor had not made a move to speak. They finally understood where the underlying tension was coming from. Tristan was eager to depart immediately.

"What you say is grave indeed. I knew Thorpe to be a weasel. Rome seems to show the worst in us, " Theodor pondered. "I mean, he keeps relations with the Saponaras."

"Saponaras?" asked Lucius to Joseph in a half-whisper, not wanting to interrupt Theodor.

"A family here in Rome with criminal tendencies. They are very well organized," Joseph answered.

"A mafia?" All he got was a slight nod.

"People best not get involved with them." They broke off their short conversation to listen to Theodor once more.

"I should've seen it coming. If Cardinal Thorpe is involved in a plot to overthrow the king he must be apprehended," Theodor answered.

"Good, then you and your friends can do that. I am to travel east." Tristan rose now, walking toward Theodor in a threatening manner. The other stepped back involuntarily, overwhelmed by the fierce presence of the other. Theodor looked away as he met the striking eyes of the masked man.

"I might need you here, your word and presence as Lord Hawthorne and Count of Cadherra could serve me good against Thorpe," Theodor began, swiftly regretting those words as he saw the reaction they provoked in Tristan.

"You gave your word to me that we would sail east. If your honor means anything to you, Lord Glovendale, you will keep that word."

"I did. But opening an inquiry against someone like Thorpe is not easily done. Even less so when you don't know the details."

"My lord," Joseph said, having remained silent for most of their conversation. "I understand you are reluctant to let Lord Hawthorne go. But both Lucius and I are witness to the promise you made. And just as you promised Tristan, he promised Miss Vega that he'd come back to her." He hesitated a bit before continuing. "Frankly, I feel we should get going. Christine is my friend and I will not see her harmed."

"Your father would not approve, I would—," Glovendale began.

"He rarely approves of anything I do, my lord. You know that as well as I. The coup was successfully dealt with. We can deal with Cardinal Thorpe upon our return. He might even return to Wessport, where we will have an easier time investigating his involvement in all this." Joseph surprisingly sounded like the voice of reason. He spoke comfortably with Lord Glovendale, as he'd known him for a long time.

"Very well. I shall stay true to what I have said. But as soon as you return, send word to me. This matter must be dealt with quickly. If Cardinal Thorpe was involved we must neutralize him or another uprising against the king might be on our hands," Theodor said thoughtfully. He started pacing next to the fire as the flames were almost nothing but dying embers. The beams of the moon had weakened as the night gave way to day. The approach of dawn was already noticeable as the sky brightened.

"I can have a ship prepared for you. In a short few hours it will take you wherever you wish," Theodor said, then called for a man with whom he spoke with for a short few moments. He then walked over to Joseph.

"I suspect you have few belongings with you. A carriage is being readied for you as we speak. It will take you to the port. I cannot go there with you, only give you access to exit the city." He took a big pouch filled with coins and gently put it in Joseph's hand, while the other strongly protested.

"Take this. If your father found out I did nothing to send you back home, he would have my head. The least I can do is to make sure you have a safe journey." He then turned to look at Tristan.

"I understand your reluctance to tell me exactly where it is you are going. Relay the destination to the captain then. But know that he will write to me where it is you have gone. That is not too much to ask, I feel," Theodor said harshly.

Tristan walked over to Theodor, extending his hand as a gesture of gratitude. "I am in your debt, my lord." His voice was laced with sincerity as the tension went away.

There was now hope in his eyes that Theodor had not seen before. He took in the appearance of the man, dressed in modest finery, a sword clinging to his hip, next to a sharp dagger. The mask seemed less striking now. It was no longer an obstacle, more like a part of a man he started respecting. Theodor did not wish to admit it to himself, but he did indeed respect men like Tristan. There might have been a hint of foolishness as he had broken into Thorpe's home, but the man himself was no fool, that much was evident to him. He now started understanding how the masked count had managed to defeat the English in the war.

As the sky turned even lighter, dawn threatening to spill over the horizon, bringing the rays of the sun. Theodor took the gloved hand, a small smile escaped him. "That knowledge pleases me, for then you finally understand what I have done for you," he teased, a charming grin spreading on his face. The angry frown that had been ever present before was finally gone as the severity of the situation had lessened.

Theodor turned to Joseph. "I will send word to your father that you are well, last I saw you. He will want to know as much." Joseph did not respond at first, but he could feel the curious eyes of Lucius on his neck while he could almost sense Tristan's eyebrow raise.

"We all are in your debt, Glovendale," Joseph nodded, his countenance stiff at the mention of his father. But it quickly dispersed as his genuine gratitude toward the man in front of him shone through. Lucius went to give the man some words of gratitude as well while a servant went to announce that the carriage was ready for departure.

Glovendale followed them down to the courtyard of his fine mansion, making sure they got safely into the carriage. He had sent some trunks of clothes and more weapons with them—hastily gathered as they had no time to spare. Other provisions had been provided as well.

"Lord Hawthorne," he said as Tristan was the last to enter the carriage. Tristan turned to face him. "If you find your fiancée, you will no doubt find Lord Braun," he continued, a sense of urgency now crept into his voice. At the mention of Braun, Tristan's mouth turned into a thin line as his eyes seemed to turn a shade darker.

"Do not kill him, if you can." The words were surprising.

"He is a traitor and he took Chri—, Miss Vega. I have many reasons to behead him the moment I find him," Tristan said in contained fury. He tried to remain civil as he spoke with Glovendale. But he found that controlling his anger was harder the more days he spent away from Christine.

"Lord Braun might have more information regarding people like Cardinal Thorpe. I know you wish to end his life, as is your right. But he could give us names we do not yet know. A plot against the king is a serious thing, we must eradicate all who were involved to be sure that it does not resurface." Glovendale spoke with the voice of reason while Tristan realized that he was still blinded by anger and slight despair.

"It seems you are right once more, my lord," Tristan confessed after a while. For the first time, he opened up, showing the slightly vulnerable state he actually found himself in.

"It takes a great man to realize when he is wrong. For then he learns from it," Glovendale spoke. His words of wisdom reminded Tristan of Athar and for the first time, he could see the resemblance. Perhaps not in looks but in character. Although Athar was more resigned and less fierce than Glovendale, both felt as wise and intelligent. "And when he learns from those mistakes he can become even greater. I expect I will hear more from the Count of Cadherra, Tristan Hawthorne in the future," Theodor blinked.

"Your counsel is wise. There should be more men like you, my lord," Tristan answered. They both shook hands once more as he entered the carriage. The driver set the horses in motion and in the flick of a whip they were on their way just as the first rays of the sun stretched over the horizon.

Glovendale looked at the carriage as it disappeared behind the gate, a small smile gracing his lips. His manservant, Bellini, came to stand next to him, a questioning look spreading on his face.

"For having caused you a world of troubles you seem very happy with that trio, especially the masked man," he mused. He was amused mainly that his master had gone from running around the whole of Rome—swearing and cursing the name of Hawthorne for the past two days to actually seeming to respect the man.

"There is something about him that I cannot quite put my finger on, Bellini. But I am sure that it will surface one day," Glovendale responded.

"Something bad?"

"No, quite the opposite," Theodor stated, the golden sunbeams touching his face. The older man sighed to himself and looked over at Bellini. "You know, I should probably go and rest. I am getting too old for these things," he complained, but the smile was ever present. It grew wider as he once more entered his house, slightly jealous that he could not also accompany the young men on their adventure.


	8. Chapter 8

**WHISPERS OF THE PAST**

 _Chapter 8_

 _April 19_ _th_ _, 1484 – Wessport_

It felt strange, for the old couple, that their lives were once more filled with laughs and giggles of a child. Marianne and Philip settled into a practiced rhythm, enjoying spending time with their daughter. Rebecca and Magnus were once more fully integrated into court, having been forgiven by the king. Rebecca took a keen interest in the young princess, and soon Marianne grew warm toward the much younger woman. She would spend almost every waking moment in the presence of Carina Fell, princess of Angloa.

Carina had much fire in her, and she was very demanding. But her father liked that spirit and he encouraged it.

It was afternoon, and the young princess was free from her lessons. She wanted nothing else but to play with her aunt, Rebecca. And as usual, Rebecca always waited for her in her chamber.

"Rebecca!" the young girl exclaimed as she saw her aunt. The older woman embraced the young girl, smiling gently as she took her in her arms.

"We shall take a stroll in the gardens, and you can tell me all about what you have learned today," Rebecca cooed to the girl.

"Is uncle Magnus coming too?" Carina asked, hopeful.

"I am afraid your uncle had to go away up north, for some boring encounter with my own uncles. My dear, it is just you and I today," Rebecca said, holding the hand of the young girl as they walked toward the gardens. The weather was warmer now as spring was in full bloom. The flowers had started emerging from the ground, waking after the cold winter. Carina was eager to pluck some and give them to her mother.

"Maybe your father could take you next time to the gardens," Rebecca said carefully. Carina sneered slightly—wrinkling her nose.

"Father never has time. He is an important man," Carina said, repeating what most people would say to her as they spoke of Philip.

"Oh, but every parent should have time for their child," Rebecca said, tucking a stray black lock behind her ear in the gallery leading to the gardens.

Carina's eyes widened. "Is that… true? Do everyone else's parents have time for their children?" she asked carefully.

"But of course. My father would tuck me in each night and kiss me goodnight as well," Rebecca lied. A small smirk spread on her face as she watched the young princess frown.

"Papa never tucks me in," she whispered.

Rebecca kneeled next to her, stroking her hair. "But I do, my sweet. And your mother…when she has time. I am surprised Marianne does not spend more time with you. She is not as occupied as your father—." Carina started crying as she felt suddenly neglected by her parents.

"Oh no, my little princess," Rebecca cooed, hugging her niece. She rocked her gently back and forth. "You must not blame your parents, they are king and queen—it is their duty to rule this country. The people come before anything else."

"I wish they were not king and queen then!" Carina exclaimed, her tiny hands forming into small fists.

Both were unaware as someone watched from the other side of the gallery. Athar grew grim at what he saw. The scene started being more and more common. Rebecca Fell would soon have the child within her grasp, and there was little he could do. It was hard for Philip to officially forbid Rebecca to visit Carina when the princess herself would ask for her aunt. And any attempt at keeping her at bay would arise unwanted gossip at court.

He doubled back, not able to watch helplessly as the young princess was slowly being corrupted, brainwashed to wish her parents off the throne—and at such a young age.

But Athar had his own worries to care for. His wife had miscarried…again. It had started to take a toll on her, and on him as well. Losing an unborn child was hard, almost as hard as losing a born child.

April 30th, 1484 – Wessport

Marianne smirked at Philip. "You guessed wrong again!" she teased as they lay in the comforts of their bed. Philip gave off a deep chuckle.

"You would play with an old man? I have almost seen seventy winters, you know," he replied.

"Really?" Marianne said, acting surprised. "Is it not the husband who should be comforting the wife as she worries about aging?" she said, giving him a playful push on the shoulder.

"I am young at heart," he quipped, deepening the embrace he had over her. Marianne giggled as he pulled his much younger wife closer.

"And in other things too, it seems," she said enigmatically. Philip frowned, not knowing what she meant. Until he started placing the pieces together.

"You are with child?" he exclaimed. "Again?!" pure joy overtook his features as he looked at her belly. For the first time, he noticed how much fuller it was through the thin chemise. "How long?"

"This autumn," she smiled. But suddenly Philip grew subdued again.

"Did not the midwife say that you could not have any more children?"

"I guess she was wrong. Yet, you still seem worried."

"You are older now, giving birth to Carina took its toll on you. I am just afraid that this will be a hard birth for you as well," he sighed. Marianne took his face between her hands and kissed him gently on the lips.

"I know my own body, and I have faith in it. It will not fail me," she smirked. "Besides, you are the old one. Worry about yourself, grandfather, before you worry about me!" she teased. Philip let out another chuckle before he grabbed her, straddling her and showering her with kisses.

 _June 10_ _th_ _, 1484 – Wessport_

Another summer was marking its way through the court of Wessport. When the queen finally started showing signs of pregnancy, her obvious condition was finally confirmed. She would parade her state, proud of being pregnant. This time, she hoped for a son—they all did.

Carina had been happy at first, she had always wished for a sibling, for she dearly wished someone to play with.

But as Rebecca slowly tainted her opinion, the young princess soon detested her future sibling. Philip and Marianne did not know where this anger stemmed from, and the aging king grew worried that their young daughter was quickly growing out of their grasp. He started putting time aside to spend it with her, for he dearly loved his child. Carina started appreciating the time spent with her father. Athar managed to distance the princess from Rebecca, thankful that he had gotten Carina away from that woman quickly.

But Rebecca was not finished. She and Magnus tried hopelessly to have a child but to no avail. It seemed luck was not on their side. She grew bitterer as she thought herself barren. Plots of how to overthrow the king started becoming a part of her daily thoughts. She could not stand to see the happy family, she was disgusted that Marianne and Philip could still produce children, at such ages.

She found herself in her chamber, sitting in her morning robe, staring out through the window, holding her stomach. All she thought was that her womb was dried out, perhaps never fully working after the birth of their daughter, which they had lost so many years ago. She thought that her daughter would have been a beautiful grown woman by now, winning the hearts of all men at court.

"I worry whenever you get that look in your eye," Magnus whispered in her ear as he came to sit next to her. Rebecca quickly removed her hands from her stomach and met his inquisitive orbs.

"I was just thinking," she responded. Her voice was more subdued than usual.

"Of Jane?"

"Our little Jane," Rebecca whispered, afraid her voice would break otherwise. But she soon pushed away the pain and focused on the present. "If Marianne gives birth to a son, all your dreams of becoming king die with him," she said, malice lacing her voice.

"And what are we to do with that? We might not be as lucky this time," Magnus said, gritting his teeth at the prospect.

When the palace had been built, Philip had made sure that passageways be built into the walls—secret ways that would lead a threatened noble or king out of the palace, if ever need be. Athar and Fawkes had happened upon them one day, soon setting out to search the grounds for more hidden panels and ways. So when Athar found one that led directly to Magnus and Rebecca's chambers, he set one of his most trusty guard to keep an eye on them.

The guard started to understand why Athar wanted to hear everything they said—the couple was starting to head in a direction that spelled treason to him.

"We could terminate the pregnancy, without killing the queen," Rebecca offered in such a cold voice that it sent shivers down both Magnus' and the guard's spines.

"You mean poison, don't you," Magnus stated after a while. He was familiar by now with his wife's cruel ways. Yet, he did nothing to stop them. He had become so blinded to her that he never truly saw her wickedness.

"I already have it in my possession. If we feed it to Marianne over a period of several weeks, she will not be able to keep the child in. It will be a premature birth which will kill the infant."

The guard held his breath at those words. But he was more worried at what Magnus would answer. He would lose all respect of the prince if he agreed on Rebecca's wishes.

"I think we could find another way, my sweet," Magnus said in an insecure voice. "I cannot have the death of an infant on my conscious."

"Because you are weak!" Rebecca suddenly snapped, her fierceness and anger quickly igniting. They argued a while longer before Rebecca promised she would not poison the queen.

The guard had heard enough, he had to report to Athar and tell him what he had just witnessed.

* * *

 _March 27_ _th_ _, 1520 – Constantinople_

Christine gave a frustrated sigh as the gentle breeze tugged at the veil that covered her face from her nose down. She followed Melike as they took a turn about the gallery. But the young woman did not complain, for she dearly loved grazing the courtyard, taking in the scent of the flowers and trail about the strange pillars that help up the second level of the house. The tower—where her room was—loomed over, ever reminding her that she had to go back to her cage.

Whenever they walked Melike would give crude remarks on Christine's posture. Every day, after her lessons, Melike would let her take a stroll about the courtyard. After they would return to her room, to the moment Christine dreaded the most; the moment she had to serve her tea.

She had served Melike tea just like the first day. But the woman was not pleased with that anymore, for the trick had grown old and boring. Christine understood that she had to serve it in a new way. So whenever she poured the brew into the cup, she conjured up the image of someone dear to her. Today that someone was her father.

As Christine poured the contents, her face twisted in pain as she remembered her father. Melike felt the pain of the young woman in front of her.

"No!" she exclaimed. Christine got startled and dropped the pot, the ceramic clinked against the brass table before it broke against the hard surface, spilling hot water everywhere. Her eyes, brimming with tears, looked up at Melike questioningly.

"Never show pain, for it is an emotion that does not belong here," Melike scolded. She ignored the broken pot, still maintaining eye contact with Christine.

"If you told me why we are doing these exercises, why I am being taught in the ways of eating, sitting, standing and even speaking—it would be easier for me to adapt," Christine explained, trying to keep her voice as gentle and contained as she could.

Melike eyed her for a while, a long moment passed where the air seemed thick enough to cut with a butter knife. "Did you have someone, before coming here?" The question felt personal and invasive.

"Answer me." Melike's eyes squinted, making the crow's feet around her orbs more prominent.

"I did, a fiancé that I learned to care for," she whispered. She had cared—and still did—for Tristan. She felt the judging eyes of the other woman on her.

"It was more than caring, for your eyes give it away," Melike's voice turned softer, almost mocking.

"What would you know of that?!" Christine got angry, gritting her teeth.

"I will give you some advice, it is not a command you must follow. But if you truly wish to surpass everyone here and live you will do well in taking heed of my words. Forget him, forget he ever existed and you will survive," Melike said, her voice neutral as she spoke.

"Forget him?" Christine could not believe what she was hearing.

"Cast away your old life and accept the one you've got." Melike's words were the harsh reality Christine now found herself in. Alas, she knew they were true.

"And what is it I must survive?"

"Lord Braun will tell you in due time," Melike simply answered.

"And when will I see him?" Christine demanded, setting back into old habits. The tone of her voice made Melike frown.

"You are not to demand anything from anyone here. Know your place, girl!" The young woman's hands turned into fists, her knuckles turned white as she squeezed them shut.

"Forgive me. When will he graze me with his presence?" She had almost wanted to say it sarcastically, but it came off as earnest. Melike seemed pleased.

"Once you are ready."

She wondered when that would ever be. Melike agreed she had shown promise, but she seemed almost reluctant to acknowledge that her time was nigh. Christine was sure that she could coax Braun to tell her the truth if she ever got the chance.

Almost as if reading her mind, Melike spoke once more. "You must learn to use your wit, and not just your looks, or you will get nowhere in life," she scolded.

"Is that what Lord Braun wants?" she asked. Christine had little wish to see him, for his presence disgusted and offset her. Yet, she needed to know what his plan for her was. Alas, she could only see the killer of Tristan when she saw him. But Braun didn't need to know that.

"You are never to meddle in his affairs or ask such questions. Is that clear?" Melike said harshly. Christine nodded reluctantly. But she understood something. If she could learn what Melike was teaching, she could use that as an advantage in her next confrontation with Braun. She would have more knowledge and more wit against him.

A servant had just cleaned up the table and brought a new pot of steaming hot water. Melike looked down at the pot and then at Christine.

"Again!" she demanded. And so, Christine started pouring the cup once more for the Ottoman woman.

 _March 19_ _th_ _– Mediterranean Sea_

They were once more on a ship, their destination was Constantinople this time. Joseph spent his days reading or staring at the horizon, fighting nausea as best as he could. Lucius spent his days mostly seasick as well while Tristan would retire to his private chambers, at the back of the ship. There—where big windows would open up, revealing the swaying sea, meeting a clear blue sky—he would unmask and go over the plans of the city.

He was returning to a place he had not been in years. He had lived there with Sofia a while, only a teenager as they had started traveling back from the Far East. They had stayed a few years before the gypsy woman decided to move on. Tristan felt that the city had been where he had started transitioning from being a boy to being a young man.

He stared down at his mask. So many things he'd rather forget had happened there. It was there he had been obligated to start wearing the constricting mask.

Tristan remembered it as if it were yesterday. After living years up in the mountains, in a remote area of the Ming kingdom, they had decided to leave the temple and travel west. It had been Tristan's wish to return back, to see his home country once more. Sofia had refused at first, but she had been lenient after he had begged her. The fact was that she missed the streets of her old town, Seville. And so they had packed, traveling down to Constantinople, a city that had fallen to the Ottomans more than fifty years prior.

He had marveled in the strangeness of the capital, of the exotic smells, sights, and sounds. Tristan had walked around with an open mouth not able to contain himself. Sofia made him wear a hood at all times, afraid that his face would be seen.

He did not understand, not then; what reactions his face could provoke. But it did not take long before he foolishly showed it to someone.

Tristan cast away the mask, growing bitter at the memory of that woman. He could still hear her laughs as she mocked him. But as she looked closer her face had turned paler.

A knock sounded on the door. He quickly retrieved the mask and put it back on, not bothering to tie the laces.

"Yes?" he said aloud.

"May I come in?" It was Lucius.

"Yes."

The rattle of a doorknob was followed by the piece of wood swinging open. He heard Lucius' footsteps as he entered his cabin. Lucius went to a chair placed close to the big bed. He sank down in it, his face slightly pale and clammy. He felt as if he had caught Tristan off guard.

"I take it this trip does not agree with you," Tristan chuckled at the sight of his friend.

"This blasted boat will not stop rocking. It will be the death of me." He carried a bucket with him, just in case. It seemed his sea legs had been left behind in Rome.

"Did you want something other than to complain to me?" Tristan asked as he leaned back on the bed, propped up against the pillows, crossing one leg over the other. Lucius would have taken offense at those words if he were not so nauseous.

"The captain says we have to dock at the nearest port. We are low on food and water, as we made a hasty departure from Civitavecchia.

"And where do we dock?"

"The closest port is Syracuse, probably a day and a half from here—a day if the winds are in our favor. The next port would be across the Ionian Sea, in Greece."

"It seems we have little choice then. As long as we get our provisions fast and are in and out of the port within the same day," Tristan said.

Lucius nodded, a pensive expression spreading on his face as he regarded Tristan's mask. "I will relay this to the captain then," he started, but Tristan got up before he could rise from the chair.

"No, you should stay and rest, Lucius. You look about ready to empty your guts. I will go speak with him."

Lucius stared at the untied laces of Tristan's mask. "I did bother you before entering, didn't I?" he stated as he pointed at the mask. Tristan looked away, quickly tying the laces of the leather helm.

"No," he answered curtly.

"We have known each other for years now. Don't you think it's time you set vain things like these aside? You do know that neither I nor Joseph care what hides underneath that mask, right?"

A dry chuckle followed. "Do not speak of things you don't know, Lucius. And do not speak of this again." His tone was harsh, a friendly warning that most men would not get. But Lucius was a close confidant, a true friend to Tristan.

Alas, Lucius would not shove this aside once more. When they had stepped onto Italian soil, outside of the Roman gates, he had seen Tristan starting to remove the mask. Hawthorne probably thought they were all asleep, but Lucius was not at that time. He had looked away out of respect, but it had saddened him that Tristan would wait so long for relief of his prison. He had heard a sigh of relief as the mask came off.

"Why? Why do you hide your face? You should have nothing to be ashamed of, for being disfigured is not your fault! No one would look down on you. You know the respect you command, Tristan! They would respect you even more if you dared to bare your face."

"Leave it—"

Lucius rose from the chair. He was still pale, but a gust of anger spread on his features. It seemed this issue had been bothering him for quite some time.

"Is it too much to ask you to trust me? Or to trust Joseph? We placed all of our faith in you, following you as far as we have. Do you not think we have a right to know? To see?"

"Am I just another curious endeavor of yours?!"

"Of course not. I just think it has gone far enough. And what of Christine? Have you even considered showing her? Will you just swoop in, save her and wed her—without letting the poor girl ever see your face?"

"No, one day I will. But now…" Tristan had no words as he clenched his fists in defeat. "I will not remove this mask—"

"Why?"

"Because I am afraid!" Tristan finally shouted at the top of his lungs, turning to stare madly into Lucius' eyes. His words quickly silenced both of them. Tristan regained his composure and cursed inwardly at such a display of weakness.

"It is okay to be afraid, Tristan. We all are at times," Lucius answered, sinking down into his seat as nausea grew.

Tristan moved toward the window, wanting to ignore the direction of the conversation. "You don't understand, Lucius." Defeat laced his voice as he stared at the swaying ocean. Something gripped at his heart as he thought of Christine and what her reaction to his face would be.

"Maybe I would if you showed me? If you trusted in me?" Those were genuine words from a genuine friend. Yet Tristan had difficulty breaking the final barrier of their friendship, which was his mask.

"If any of you have any sort of intelligence, you would all rapidly leave my side the moment you saw my bare face," he mumbled to himself. His breath fogged up the glass of the window.

"It cannot be worse than what I have heard some of the maids at Adelton Hall whisper," Lucius joked, trying to lighten the mood. "Surely you are not cursed, as they say?" he chuckled. The merriment in his voice caused a slight chuckle in Tristan too but his was sadder.

"Maybe I am," he whispered to himself, not loud enough for Lucius to hear.

He turned from the window, staring at the seasick man. "I will go speak with the captain," he finally said. Lucius gave up, realizing they were back to square one. His lips thinned as Tristan shut the door behind him. It hurt Lucius to see his friend suffer in a prison he had made for himself. Perhaps one day Tristan would muster up the courage and show his true self, ignoring the scars that undoubtedly touched his features.

 _March 30_ _th_ _– Constantinople_

They were strolling in the courtyard once more. Melike still insisted that Christine was not ready for the world outside of the tower. She sulked in silence, cursing the veil that she had to wear across her face.

Suddenly, the tall doors to the street opened up. A palanquin was just touching ground when Braun himself exited it. Another man shortly followed him, dressed in riches and fineries. They spoke rapidly in Ottoman Turkish, a language Christine's tutors had tried hard to wire into her brain. She was amazed as she understood most of the conversation.

"…very sick. He does not let many know of this and tries to hold on to power. But his son, Suleiman, keeps frequenting the royal palace more often now. I suspect he knows," the Ottoman said in Braun's direction. Christine had no idea of just whom they were talking. She could only understand slight pieces of their conversation. She discreetly tried to inch closer to them, unnoticed.

"If his son does indeed take the throne soon, it might bode well for us. God knows Selim can be brash. I have lost count of how many viziers he has executed up until this point," Braun said, never seeing Christine as she kept to the shadows of the gallery. The young woman did not understand what exactly it was that she was hearing. But she understood it was of great importance. She retired back into the shadows, much like Tristan would have done, and started processing the words and names.

Melike soon found her, sitting on a stone bench with a pensive look in her lavender eyes. "You rest when grazing the courtyard? I believe you have had quite enough for today. It is time for your lesson," she snickered, demanding Christine to follow her. The young woman did so without complaining, glad to be able to remove the veil from her face.

Once her tutor came to her room—always the same woman—Melike walked out, leaving the young woman to learn in peace. As soon as the old Ottoman woman was outside, Christine turned to her teacher.

"Who are Selim and Suleiman?" she demanded with little tact. The teacher was caught off guard as her eyebrows rose to meet her hairline.

"My dear," she said, plastering a rehearsed smile on her neutral face. "Where did you hear those names?" she asked carefully. But Christine took heed in trusting the woman. Strangely, she could hear Melike's demanding voice shouting at the back of her head _"You think a westerner like you can demand questions like these without arising suspicion? How pathetic of you!"_

"Oh, I just heard some maids mentioning those names with great awe in their voice this morning as they cleaned my room and change my linens," she lied. Christine was surprised at how easy the lie came out of her mouth. It was strangely different to when she had tried to coax Tristan to bring her to Wessport. She had felt clumsy and afraid then, now she just spoke as if it were the truth she was telling. The tutor narrowed her eyes in suspicion at first.

"There was mention of someone being rather handsome," she said in a pondering voice. "But then again my Turkish is not yet worthy, so I might have misinterpreted the whole conversation," she excused. Suddenly, Christine looked rather guilty. "I know it was wrong of me to listen in on their conversation. But I do believe the maids are not aware that I am learning their language. It was not their fault, madam," she said, looking as innocent as she could. The trick seemed to work its charm for the tutor instantly relaxed and a smile plastered onto her narrow face.

"It is quite alright. Being curious is not befitting a young woman as yourself. You should only strive to please, my dear, and be gracious when doing so. But asking about our Sultan and wanting to know more about him and his son is wonderful, I think. His Majesty Selim is the current Sultan, you see." When Christine seemed confused at the words, the tutor quickly corrected herself.

"A Sultan is much like what you would call a king. But, of course, our Sultan is much greater than any of your western kings," she offered. Christine had to fight hard to scoff at the blatant propaganda. Instead, she stared back in awe, seemingly brainwashed.

"I see, how interesting," she said in a truthful voice. "And then Suleiman must be the prince, right?" The tutor smiled and nodded. However, she felt as if having shared too much and soon excused herself.

Melike soon entered in the tutor's place, taking in the stifled expression on Christine's face. "It seems you are thinking hard about something," Melike said nonchalantly. "Of something you should not be thinking."

"Am I to meet the Sultan or his son?"

"Hope, for your sake, that it ends up that way," Melike answered brusquely. Christine felt that she should have broken down crying, or loudly protested. But all she could manage was a dry chuckle.

"If Braun thinks he can use me to gain the favor of the Sultan, he is direly mistaken," she spat. "And if I do gain the favor of the Sultan, I will not lift a finger to keep loyal to a man who murdered my fiancé," she said, crossing her arms. Christine suddenly started realizing the true power she had over Braun.

"A lion does not realize how powerful it is until its first kill," Melike said, speaking in riddle. "Do you really think Braun would allow you that power? He knows your hatred of him, he is not an idiot."

"I wish to speak with Braun," Christine scoffed, ready to scream at his face and take pleasure in making him realize that she would not bend to his will.

But Melike only laughed at her. "You have no power yet, you fool. Have you yet seen the Sultan or his son? No. Let me tell you what will happen. If you met Lord Braun now he will send you to the highest bidder—a high lord's harem in the best scenario, a whorehouse in the worst. But if you stay patient, and learn to respect his lordship and learn to show your loyalty he will strive to send you directly to the Sultan's harem. There are hopes that you will eventually become a _valide sultan,_ which you will not in your current state. If he realizes you would cast him away the moment you grabbed power he would crush you like a fly, which is more than what you deserve," Melike mused, taking pleasure in seeing defeat touch Christine's face.

"So no, you are not yet ready to meet Braun. I will say when you are," Melike finally answered. "Arrogance will not get you far in life."

"It made my fiancé a General, and then a Count," Christine retorted.

"I suspect it was just more than arrogance. I am certain it was the arrogance that killed him," Melike teased. But Christine never offered her any tears of sorrow, nor words of malice.

She simply sat down once more, finally understanding exactly what she now needed to do. "What is the today's lesson?" she finally asked, mustering up the remaining dignity she felt she had. Her words provoked a slight frown from Melike. The older woman had hoped for a tantrum, but all she got was a silent and composed young lady.

 _March 26_ _th_ _– the Aegean Sea, Coast of Greece_

The ship didn't seem to move fast enough for Tristan. As they had left the Italian peninsula and Sicily behind them, they were now off the coast of the Ottoman Empire, for Greece was one of its greater provinces.

The captain of the ship, Lorenzo, came to stand next to Tristan. "We have no real authority to enter the port of the capital as we are not there for diplomatic reasons nor trade. It would, therefore, be illegal to enter there and the consequences could be dire. We will sail past Çanakkale during the night tomorrow, hopefully, any moonlight will be obscured by the clouds. I can drop you off up the coastline from Constantinople. We will then wait four days for you. If you and your friends cannot return in that amount of time, we will not wait and set sail back to Rome. It could be dangerous if we were spotted by the Ottomans, my lord," the Italian said direly.

Tristan did not like the odds. Four days would not be much time, but it was all the time he had, so he had to make use of it.

"I understand, Captain. I would not also like to put the lives of my men at risk in a situation like this one," he said, looking at Lucius who sat at the other end of the boat, looking at the skyline. They had scarcely spoken since Lucius had asked to see Tristan unmasked.

Lorenzo nodded and went back to study the maps of the area. Joseph soon joined Tristan and stared into the distance. "I hope you have a plan for when we arrive."

"I know my way around the city," Tristan said, his jaw clenched as he thought back to those memories.

"Have you been there before?" Joseph asked.

Tristan merely nodded. "It was a long time ago." He had had both happy and heartbreaking moments in that old city.

"You and Lucius should speak. Behaving in such a petty way is not usual for either of you," Joseph tsked. Tristan chuckled as the youngest of them stepped forth as the voice of reason.

"He can come and speak with me whenever he chooses," Tristan answered arrogantly.

"Sometimes you are too proud, my friend," Joseph muttered.

One look his way was all it took to silence Joseph. Although he did not find the masked man as intimidating as before, he was still wary and respected him.

"Lucius told me what he had requested of you."

"It is something I cannot give neither him nor you," Tristan rasped.

"I will not ask such a thing of you. But you shouldn't give the same answer to Christine. There will come a day when she will want to see the man underneath that mask." Joseph patted Tristan's shoulder, understanding the dilemma he was faced with. "And that day might be sooner than you think."

* * *

 **A/N: Sorry for being so behind on updating. More chapters to come this week!**


	9. Chapter 9

**WHISPERS OF THE PAST**

 _Chapter 9_

 _July 30_ _th_ _, 1484 – Wessport_

"You realize you are accusing my own brother of plotting against my family, right?" came the harsh voice of the king as he sat on his throne. Lord Athar stood there, together with the guard who had heard everything. They had not yet found enough evidence to prove what either Magnus or Rebecca had said. But the lord did not wish to wait any longer, afraid that something might happen as he kept his silence.

"I have no proof, Sire. But I felt it best to warn you about Rebecca Fell. She seems determined to put her husband on the throne, and with him there she would rule Angloa, through a puppet king," Athar responded as respectfully as he could.

Philip massaged his temples at the growing headache. "I suppose you would want Carina away from Rebecca Fell then as well. For they seem to be getting along quite nicely again," he said.

"There is no doubt in my mind that Lady Rebecca is poisoning your daughter against you. The faster you remove her from court, the better."

"I cannot, Thomas. Rebecca's family is powerful. Just casting her out would draw their attention toward me, it could end in a bad way."

Athar started losing hope as he felt trapped by the confinements of local politics. "Then send your wife away from court—somewhere Rebecca cannot touch her."

Philip sighed once more. "I am getting too old for this," he muttered. He felt only a fraction of himself—his younger self lost in the folds of time. "But I will follow your advice, as I have always done."

 _September 1_ _st_ _, 1484 – Adelton Hall_

Marianne walked with arduous steps. Her belly weighed her down, making the ache in her spine greater than ever before—and she still had less than a month of torture to endure. The fact was that the last few days had been particularly hard on her as she had felt more exhausted than usual. But she kept her spirits up—Philip was to visit her within the week.

"Your Majesty, you should not be walking around in your condition!" came the soft Spanish voice of Lord Vega, followed by his young son, Charles Vega.

"Walking helps calm me, my lord," the queen excused, trying to mask the strain in her voice. She had been feeling unwell for the past few days and hoped that a small stroll might rise her spirits as it usually did.

The ladies that accompanied her looked down at the stone floor in shame. "We tried to stop her, my lord, but she will not listen to us," one of them dared.

Marianne gave out a gentle laugh, ignoring the sharp unusual pains in her stomach that had plagued her for the last few hours. But they seemed more severe now, only growing.

"Walking is good…for my condition—" her eyes suddenly clouded as she felt faint, the sharp pains intensifying. "I feel faint," she suddenly exclaimed, losing her balance. Lord Vega quickly grabbed her in his arms.

"I will take you to your chambers, Your Majesty," he said, moving to carry her.

Marianne started panicking as something felt off. She was not supposed to feel these sharp pains yet. "Something is wrong!" she whispered in a terrified manner.

The ladies looked at each other in confusion while Vega rushed her to her room. "Call the midwife, don't just stand there like fools!" he shouted as he felt Marianne's rugged breath against his neck.

One of the ladies in waiting ran to get the midwife while the rest waited. Vega's own wife, Catherine, was among the ladies who ran after her queen.

Marianne was put in her bed as sweat perspired from her brow. "Bring some water," Catherine commanded as she went to comfort the worried queen. "All will be alright, Your Majesty!" she consoled the middle-aged woman, tears streaming down her face.

In what seemed like hours, the midwife finally appeared, short of breath and clutching her side. "Make way!" she demanded as she squeezed through the ladies in waiting and Vega. "You," she said, pointing at the Spaniard. "Outside." He did as she bade, giving his wife a small peck on the cheek.

After the man was out of the room, she started ordering people around, taking care of the queen as best as she could.

"M-my husband," Marianne said, in between the bursts of pain. "I need to see him!"

"You husband should be here within a few days," Catherine said, gently dabbing her forehead with a cooled cloth. Marianne felt despair. She felt alone, with people she did not really know. She wanted the comfort of her husband by her side.

The midwife looked at the woman with worry. She had examined her thoroughly and Marianne was indeed going into labor. "If the child wants to come out, then there is little we can do to stop it. We need to help it instead."

They waited a bit more until the contractions came closer and closer to each other. Marianne had never before felt such an intense pain in her life, but she followed the midwife's voice obediently, keen on delivering a healthy child into the world.

Night fell and the queen was still struggling. Catherine came to meet her husband outside of the door, a look of dismay gracing her gentle features.

"How is she?" asked her husband. Catherine shook her head.

"The child will not come out and she keeps asking for the King." Her voice shook slightly, for even Lady Vega was afraid of what might happen to the queen now. Her husband carefully embraced her.

"I sent someone to rush to Coldwick and see if the king has arrived yet—he is to escort him back," he comforted her.

 _September 2_ _nd_ _, 1484 – Adelton Hall_

The midwife was at her wit's end. She felt powerless before such an ordeal. The child would not come out. She worried it was turned the wrong way. She had explained it to the queen who started crying in desperation.

"Are you saying it will perish?" Marianne cried, not willing to face such an option.

"Both of you will unless it comes out. We can force it out, but it will most likely not survive it," she lamented, desperation now laced her voice.

Marianne stared at the ceiling, still feeling the babe kicking and twisting in her stomach. Tears rolled from her tired face as she closed her eyes. She would most likely not be able to see her husband again.

"Then cut me open," she ordered, her voice steady as she did so. Several of the ladies present thought they had misheard her.

"Your Majesty, we cannot—"

"This child needs to be born! If it is a boy, it needs to enter into this world. I want you to take a knife and cut open my womb. I have heard of such procedures before."

"But you will not survive!" the midwife exclaimed. "And what of the king? How can I look him in the eyes and tell him I sliced you open, leaving you to die?" Marianne clenched her fists, biting down hard as another contraction of pain washed over her.

"I have waited long enough. He will not make it here before one or both of us die. I wish my child would live before I did. So do as I told you before it is too late," she cried. She did not wish to add how scared she was at the prospect. Marianne wanted them to get the infant out before she changed her mind. "I order you as your queen," she growled through the pain.

The midwife was at a loss for words. So she ordered Vega to enter, to be witness to the queen's wishes. Marianne told him everything and he had to refrain from calling her mad. But he respected her decision—there was little else he could do.

After he had left the room, the ladies in waiting put on their aprons, each lady putting her weight on one limb of the suffering woman.

The midwife had no time to call for a surgeon, so she would have to cut the womb open herself.

Marianne saw the old woman near her with the sharp knife in hand. Catherine was right by her side, holding her right arm down. "I am here, Marianne," the younger woman said, calling the queen by name. Marianne smiled through the pain and the tears and the knife made a quick slash across her lower abdomen. She felt the flaming pain and she bit down hard as blood stained the white linen of the bedspread.

A moment of silence followed as she felt two hands inside of her womb. Suddenly a cry sounded out in the early morning, a cry that was worth every ounce of pain for her. The midwife picked up the bloody child, seemingly healthy despite having been born almost a month prematurely. She handed it to another woman who went to wash it while the old woman set to save the queen. She knew there was a small chance of survival but there was still a chance, nonetheless.

Alas, there were many variables. She had to stop the bleeding, the wounds could not infect or the queen would surely die. The task seemed dire, but the midwife did all she could.

As she started sewing the abdomen closed, Marianne looked up, her vision blurred as her blood streamed out of her.

"I want my child," she said in a faint voice. "Was it a boy? It has to be…," she trailed off, fighting against the arms that pinned her down. She ignored the needle that pierced her skin, she already knew there was little the people present in the room could do to save her.

One of the ladies went over to the queen, holding the child in her arms. "Let her believe she gave birth to a son," Catherine whispered in the lady's ear before she kneeled down next to the queen. The lady held back a sob at the tragic scene before her. She merely nodded, sure her voice would break otherwise.

"You gave birth to a beautiful boy," Catherine lied as the lady placed the screaming creature next to Marianne. She smiled, feeling her eyes shut slowly as the blood would not stop flowing from her open womb.

"Tell the king I want to name him Edmund," she sighed, drinking in the sight of the small girl next to her, enveloped in several blankets. Marianne was happy, thinking she had given an heir to the kingdom.

Silent tears streamed from Catherine's face as the queen slowly shut her eyes—her life leaving her in one final breath. The midwife stopped sewing once she realized that Marianne's heart had stopped beating.

* * *

 _March 30_ _th_ _, 1520 – Constantinople_

"It has only been three days," Christine argued. "You said I was not ready then, how could I have become so in just three days, _hanim_ ," she added in a respectful tone, just as Melike liked it.

"If I say you are ready, then you are ready. This afternoon you are to eat supper with Lord Braun and his friends. If they approve of you and Lord Braun sees your loyalty, you will be moved away from here whereby someone else will train you," Melike answered harshly. "Hope and pray that they move you to the Royal Harem."

Christine hid the nausea that started in the pit of her stomach. She had no wish to dine with Braun and his foreign friends. She had no idea what to do or say.

"You already know what to do, so do not disappoint me, or I will have you whipped," Melike continued. "We are to dress you for tonight, so in a few hours the seamstress will arrive with her selection of dresses for you."

"And I cannot wear this?" Christine asked. She wore the typical ottoman dress for females; a long tunic in soft pink with a thin robe in a contrasting blue, a sash in white was tightly tied around her waist. She had a small hat on her head where a veil hung from its back.

"Of course not!" Melike exclaimed. "You must wear the attire from your own land!" she snickered.

The Ottoman woman asked Christine to start undressing as a bath was being drawn for her. While Christine bathed, close to the opened windows in her room, she stared out, looking at the breathtaking view. Summer felt closer. She had forgotten the days and even the months by now. When one of the servants told her that they were close to April, her eyes seemingly bulged out of their sockets. Christine had been away from Angloa since February. The time had passed more quickly than she could have imagined. Christine's thoughts drifted to her mother.

Amelia probably thought she was dead by now. The thought saddened her greatly. She did not wish to make her mother suffer more. She wished she could go home with her.

Her thoughts quickly drifted to Braun. He was viler than she gave him credit for. At this point, Christine had not been surprised at the prospect of being sold like a slave. For Braun's sake, it would be best if she did not end up next to a man with power—Christine would do all it took to destroy the cowardly Angloan traitor. He should never have told her it was he who had slain Tristan. Christine could have ignored his treason against the crown, but not his slaughter of the man she cared for.

She grew warm at the thought of Tristan's lips on her once more. Another feeling settled in the pit of her stomach and spread down as she remembered his hands on her and how he had looked at her. It had been so very different to Braun's thug who had broken into her chamber and nearly forced himself on her. Once that memory was conjured up, Christine put her head underwater to forget about it.

She was scrubbed clean and put into a fresh chemise. An hour later, when her hair was dry, a young girl started combing through it, astonished at the golden tresses that glided through her fingers like silk.

"You have very beautiful hair," the young girl said shyly in Turkish. Christine merely nodded, thanking her—her mind somewhere else as her locks were pinned into place.

Soon there was a knock on the door and a woman stepped in, followed by Melike. It was the seamstress. This one was very different to the old one she'd had in Wessport. For this woman was no Antonia Coticelli—she was all refinement and finesse.

The seamstress started dictating the other servants and soon the poor young woman jumped in and out of several fashionable gowns. But none of them suited her taste; they were too refined and heavy for her liking.

But, finally, it seemed one gown caught her eye. It was a simple dress in soft yellow. The muslin fabric hung around her like a floating cloud and the high waist gave the gown an ancient twist. Once Christine had donned it, all of the women in the room started showering her with compliment after compliment.

Melike soon ordered them all away, standing alone with Christine finally. "I expect to hear only the best from his lordship. Or I will take great pleasure in seeing you being whipped this evening," Melike said with a snarl, raising one eyebrow as she eyed the girl. Christine did not back down and only offered a genuine smile, completely ignoring the words of the other.

"Of course, hanim. I will not disappoint you. But if I should succeed, you will indeed wish you had never met me," she continued with a neutral mask on her face. Two guards knocked on the door, there to escort Christine to the dining area.

She left Melike with her words in her throat, not able to come with a reasonable comeback, for what Christine said was indeed true.

 _March 30_ _th_ _– Sea of Marmara_

The very same day, their ship had entered by the small Çanakkale strait. The city kept watch over the Dardanelle waterway as all ships had to pass through before entering the Sea of Marmara.

It was therefore that Lorenzo had insisted they sailed at night. Ominous clouds had threatened during the day and luck seemed on their side. For during the night, a heavy fog obscured any view a lookout might have from the watchtower onto the sea. They quietly sailed through the fog in the early hours of morning. All held their breath as the ship caught wind and quickly moved through the stretch.

As time passed, it got brighter and brighter, until dawn was barely an hour away. The fog was lifting, revealing a close coastline on one side.

"I have no idea how we will get out once more," Lorenzo muttered under his breath.

The beams of the sun peeked over the eastern horizon, threatening the ship with discovery. But before they knew it, the ship was out of the stretch and inside the closed off sea. They were in true Ottoman territory now. Since Constantinople was a safely guarded city, the Marmara Sea was closely protected as well.

But Lorenzo knew what he was doing. The fair-haired Italian would retire every so often to his cabin, speaking with the navigator. With the maps they had, and previously received intelligence of the maritime patrols or merchant ships that would pass the area—they expertly managed to avoid them, not spotting a single ship on their way to Constantinople.

By the time the sun was high in the sky, they passed a cluster of islands, almost in the middle of the small sea. Tristan stared ahead, at what was waiting. His conversation with Lucius weighed heavy on his shoulders. The mask was a burden now more than ever. He clenched his fists and gritted his teeth in silence, grateful that the mask would hide any expression that would otherwise give him away.

The gentle sigh of the sea brushed across his covered features. There was a strange feeling that settled in his stomach the closer they got to the Ottoman capital. This had been his home for years, and now he was about to return. Tristan never thought in a hundred years that he would ever step foot in the city again.

Lucius had finally started finding his sea legs. He did not feel as nauseous as before. It would only come in small spurts when the ship was violently rocked by the harsh winds that would usually come just before nightfall. He looked at the clear blue waters, seemingly endless in depth. By the coastline, in the far distance, he could spot something he had never seen; turquoise waters. They had been too far away from the coastal line of Greece for him to see those radiant waters, shining under the sun as the waves softly broke against the white shores.

By afternoon the sea had calmed, not a cloud was visible in the sky. The gently moving waters glittered in the light of the sun, brightening up the horizon even more. Lorenzo had informed them that they were merely days from the coast where he would drop them off.

"Five miles north of the city is where we will drop you. You will have to swim ashore—"

"Joseph cannot swim all that well," Lucius trailed off as he and Tristan spoke with the captain.

"We will get you as close to the coast as we can, but we cannot spare any of our smaller boats to take you ashore. That we can only do once we see you returning with your fiancée. If you take a boat ashore you might be seen more easily.

"We will manage," Tristan rasped, staring off into the distance. He could not believe how close they were. Christine just had to hold on for a few more days and they would come for her.

"Why five miles up north?" asked Lucius.

"It is a more desolate area with fewer roads by the coast. We won't be seen as likely. Once we drop you off we are sailing inwards, toward the sea, to hide.

"That is good. Then we are just to wait until we reach our destination," Lucius murmured. He was feeling the pressure. Everything could go wrong. One wrong step and they could be seized. Even if Angloa kept some trade with the Ottomans, they were by no means allied. If three strange Angloans were found lurking in the city without permission, they could be taken captive.

It was something Tristan was willing to risk, at least for himself. He had tried to urge Joseph and Lucius to stay back but none would listen to reason.

As night fell, they sat in Tristan's chamber. The air was tense with anticipation. The three of them all knew what might happen once they stepped foot on land.

"I say it is Tristan's mask who will give us away," Joseph scoffed in a playful manner. It provoked chuckles in the other tense men. It seemed the mask had become less taboo as their friendship had evolved. But what Lucius had confronted Tristan about was still too personal.

"So what will we do once we arrive? What is the plan this time? For we do have a plan this time, right?" Joseph asked curiously. He didn't want to go in blind like they had in Rome.

"I have some friends who could help us. They could house us for the night and help us get wherever we wanted to go," Tristan said as he crossed his fingers under his chin. He had not seen them in over eleven years. He wondered how much they would have changed. He had been a teenager when they arrived. His mind wandered off to the first time he had seen the markets toward the local merchant's hub of the city. His eyes had almost escaped their sockets as he saw the domed mosque for the first time, with its pillars reaching for the sky. They had lived in a poorer area of the city. But for a long time, he had been happy—except for when wearing the mask. It had taken him a long while to get used to it and as kids teased him, adults would snicker behind his back. So slowly but surely, Tristan started snapping at them, sending glares. Just as he had trained with his masters in the Far East, he found a trainer in the city as well, willing to teach him more about the art of war and combat. It was the only solace he could find when he was constantly faced with a sneering and unaccepting society.

"Do you know the road we have to trek to get into the city?" The fewer people they met, the better it would be.

"We will have to keep off the road like we did in Rome," Tristan murmured, taking a look at the map. He started pointing at it. "Here is where the main road north goes." He pointed at a desolate area just north-west of the city. "We must still go through the gates upon entering the city. Constantinople is not like Rome. After the Ottomans took it, they made sure to repair any breakings in the wall. It is almost impermeable, both to sacking or to smaller groups—like ours." Joseph and Lucius grew tense as he revealed such critical information.

"Will you not be stopped at the gates?" asked Lorenzo, pointing at the odd looking trio. "I do not wish any disrespect," he began, growing uncomfortable as it was evident to what he was referring to. "But you three do not exactly inspire—"

"If we are confronted by the guards we will just say we are Venetians," Tristan cut him off. "People from Venice, poor or rich will mean a good trade to the Ottomans. If they think we are there to seek our fortune they will let us in." He sounded sure of himself, but the rest weren't as sure. Yet, neither Joseph nor Lucius questioned him at this point. They held too much trust in him.

"And what about…" Lorenzo began, looking at Tristan as he made a gesture at his face.

"Many people who have scars cover them when they enter the city—I am no different." The tone of his voice was not pleasant as they yet again touched on a subject that was not comfortable for him.

"These are the Ottomans. They will be on the lookout for people like you. They might think you are a leper in disguise, there to infect the whole city," he said worriedly. Lucius and Joseph could not help but see a point in his reasoning.

"Let me worry about that," Tristan said in an enigmatic way.

"Then it seems all we have to do now is wait," Lucius sighed, quickly changing the focus. He, Joseph and Lorenzo kept looking at the map and going over the plan. Tristan went up to deck. He needed some fresh air. The constricting tension in the captain's quarters felt suffocating to him.

Night had long since fallen as he came up on deck. A gentle spring breeze caressed his form. The Mediterranean seemed to embrace him like a long-lost child. He stared emptily at the dark sea. In the distant horizon, lights from nearby port towns flickered in the still darkness. The faint moon did little to illuminate the black of night.

For him, it felt like traveling back in time. He did not know what exactly might await him in that old city. Tristan wondered if some of his old friends were still alive. When he was faced with the death of Musa he had been afraid that other friends had met a similar fate. As the stars slowly became visible in the sky—allowing the navigator to easily navigate the hostile waters, he looked forward.

What of Christine? Lately, she had been less in his mind. Tristan was ashamed that he was trying to push her out, afraid of how he was acting lately. He was being careless—it scared him. He had realized a while ago that there was little he would not do for her. It was almost as if their time apart had only drawn him closer to her. His heart sped up as her form appeared once more before him. She seemed so innocent in such a hostile world. He sometimes grew wary; wondering how she could survive in such a harsh reality. Alas, Christine had managed to face her father's death. And she had accepted her engagement with him. He only wondered if she felt more than care for him. Tristan grew afraid sometimes. When he slept and let his mind wander, he would tell himself that she only kissed him out of pity, that she could never grow to love someone like him.

Tristan suddenly stopped himself. Did he want her to love him? The thought that he had tried to evade for so many months—the word that he had forcibly shut out of his mind seemed to grow strong within him now. He had never known true love for a woman, not really. He wondered then if that was what he felt for her. The prospect of loving Christine seemed even more daunting now, for the fact was that he did not wish to have her toy with his heart and eventually break it.

Maybe, as they returned back to Angloa, they could start getting to know each other again. He was certain that as soon as they were in each other's arms again it would all be alright. Tristan audibly scoffed at himself, startling one of the sailors who was quietly taking down one of the sails. The poor man nearly jumped out of his shoes as he spotted the large black shadow.

Tristan found himself too naïve at times. He quickly ignored what had just gone through his mind. It was better to meet Christine first and then let such thoughts wander carelessly around.

 _March 31_ _st_ _– Constantinople_

Christine stared at the starlit sky as midnight passed. She found there were too many stars to count there. Her heart soared as she leaned against the rail of the balcony, taken in—as always—by the alluring prospect of the night. Alas, she felt alone as she stared up at the heavens. Tristan was no longer under the same sky. The young woman hugged the iron railing and bit her teeth together. She consoled herself that he was now looking down at her—all his worries and troubles were now over. Another man in her life came to thought. Her father must be there now, looking at his daughter tried her best to take care of herself. She wondered what Charles Vega would say if he saw her now. Christine felt that the scared girl who watched helplessly as her father was taken away was gone—or she had climbed somewhere deep within her, guarded by someone else now.

"Are you ready?" came a harsh voice behind her. Christine did not turn around as she recognized Melike's voice. Her lavender eyes grew hard as she placed the loose shawl over her shoulders. The young woman turned around, determination shining through her whole being. She took mindful steps toward Melike, walking past her, not even acknowledging the woman's presence. Melike—someone who had brought her little joy as she spent time in Constantinople—remained silent as she watched a cold and calculating Christine Vega walk out of that room.

Although not showing it, Christine's heart was racing as she walked down the many stairs of the tower.

She started getting into character.

The young woman remembered her first dance outside of Adelton. It had been in Hayes, the day before her sixteenth birthday. It was a warm evening in August and her father had taken her. She had been nervous, yet secure in the presence of her father, who had led her through the crowd in the mansion of the mayor. Christine had blushed as a boy she had fancied at the time looked her way. In her innocent adolescence, she had accepted his hand as he asked for a dance. The young woman grew docile at the memory, a sad nostalgia washed over her. In her eyes, however, the truthfulness and innocence of that sixteen-year-old shone through. Once she descended into the courtyard, Braun stood waiting. He was to escort her to the dining area for a very late dinner. The older man grew surprised as he saw the innocent beauty. She was not the same girl who had been sending daggers his way on their journey to the city.

"You look ravishing, my dear Miss Vega," he permitted himself to say. A shy and involuntary smile spread on her lips as she looked down, blushing at his compliment. However, she said nothing as she took his hand. Braun smirked at the docile and obedient young woman. Melike had done a wonderful job in subduing her.

He escorted her to the dining room, an area where Christine had not yet been. "We are to meet some very powerful friends of mine tonight. If they are impressed with you, a wonderful future will follow for you, my dear," Braun whispered in her ear. He grew even more delighted as he spotted goosebumps on her exposed neck.

"I see, my lord," was all she said. Her voice seemed softer than before. But Braun only thought he imagined it.

The arched doorway led to an impressive room. It was high in roof—mosaics in blues, yellows, greens, and whites adorned one side of the wall. Flowery motifs crawled up toward the ceiling. The other three walls were covered in rich fabrics, tapestries or even carpets that clashed with the initial mosaic wall. Alas, they were still elegant in their own ways. Backless hassock chairs in blue and reds were placed around a mahogany table where men sat and conversed.

Christine waited as Braun introduced her to the company. She ignored most of their looks on her. Her eyes searched each of them, for something standing out. She quickly recognized the old man from the ship—the one Braun had been talking with as they arrived in the city. She turned to them—a warm smile graced her lips as she gave a deep and elegant curtsy.

Braun smirked at he took her hand, seating her next to him, telling her to pour drinks for the others. Christine did so, always keeping a shy smile on her face.

"She is a sight," one of the men said in his language as he looked at her. Christine's fingers reached for the vase containing a sweet brew, pouring it into their cups. When she poured it into the old man's the look in her eyes changed, it grew more vivacious and fierce, as if she were sending him a message. It seemed only he had seen such a look, for a curious eyebrow rose, subtly followed by a small smirk.

Supper went by in a haze for her. The mask Melike had so carefully crafted for her never fell out of place. Whenever Christine spoke or laughed, she felt as if it were a stranger in her place. It was strange to see herself behave in such a way—like she was on the sideline, watching a complete replica of herself delight the lords in the room.

And they were most delighted with her. But not entirely convinced—except for one of them; which was exactly what she wanted. As they finished their food, the old lord asked if she would walk with him. Christine gave a slight nod in his direction as they toured the gallery of the courtyard—always under the watchful eyes of the others. Many of them did the same. Some took the opportunity to smoke or just philosophize, something Braun blatantly detested. Life was too short to speculate over.

The old man—Hassan, took her arm in his as they toured the courtyard. "It seems Lord Braun has indeed put a lot of faith in you," he spoke in clear English, yet his voice was low so the others could not hear.

"Lord Braun is just mindful of me, my lord," she answered softly.

"But you _do_ know why we have all been gathered here tonight."

"You insult me by asking such a question. I thought it evident at this point." Christine broke eye contact as they finished a whole turn of the gallery. Braun kept to the shadows, wanting desperately to hear what they were speaking of.

It seemed a part of Christine's mask slipped as her eyes caught sight of Braun, and Hassan seemed perceptive of it. He rose his head high, the silver beard blowing in the gentle breeze. "Where do your loyalties lie, my lady?" he suddenly asked. Christine was not ready for such a question. Melike had not prepared her for this. But she turned to the Ottoman lord and proudly rose her head.

"With myself. I will not fool you, my lord, by saying that I am a faithful servant of Lord Braun. He brought me here, far from my home," she kept a respectful tone in her voice as she spoke. But the lord seemed struck by her truthfulness. Christine grew wary then that she might have doomed herself. If he did not approve of her, the other lords might not either, and she might be cast aside.

Instead, he smiled. Hassan turned toward her and gently patted her on her arm. "Good. A person who is loyal to someone like Braun is no different from a dog, following a doomed master."

Christine's stomach jumped at those words. "Doomed, my lord?"

"Worry not about such things," he whispered. Hassan stopped and let go of her hand. Christine eyed him under her lashes. Might it be that the man before her held just a great a dislike for Braun as she did? She thought him Braun's friend. Maybe the proud Angloan lord was losing favor with his old friends and desperately needed something to tie them together. Selling Christine off to one of them—or making her a Royal Concubine—would indeed retain some of his holding in society as well as securing him large sums of money.

"Might I presume you will return here?"

Hassan chuckled, a most heartwarming sound to her ears. "I will indeed. Perhaps it will be to whisk you away from Lord Braun," Hassan murmured, looking at the Angloan lord. He found that the two were being closely watched. "He might think us plotting."

"I do not _plot_ , my lord," Christine said, nodding toward Braun and smiling at him. "I like being direct with people and have the same courtesy returned to me," she smirked.

"Then you are in the wrong place."

"I think I know very few honest people. And those I have known have forfeited their lives to the truth they believed in." She did not let her own sadness get a hold of her. Hassan seemed pensive at her words as well.

"Before the sun sets tomorrow I will return, my lady," he finally said. Christine never responded. She knew she had gained him over. The young woman gave a short nod before giving him an elegant curtsy. Hassan walked over to his friends, to indulge in more conversation. Meanwhile, Braun stepped toward Christine.

"What did he say?" There was a nervousness in his countenance that silently pleased her. Braun must desperately wish for that man's approval. Christine widened her eyes, gently meeting his.

"He will return tomorrow, my lord," she whispered.

A sinister smile spread on his features as he saw his plans unfold. "Good." Braun could not contain his giddiness. Suddenly Christine gripped his hand, dragging him aside.

"But my lord, is it true that man will take me away?" she asked innocently. Braun found himself surprised, he did not think Melike would've had such good progress with the young woman.

"If Lord Hassan approves of you, you will be allowed to enter the Royal Harem. If you enter there, my lady, you have the opportunity to catch the eye of either the Sultan or his son. If you do, it could bode well for all of our futures," he started. "I hope you will know how to thank me if that happens." He turned to fully face her, his features softening. "You do know I'm doing all of this for you, right? I am giving you a future."

She had to fight hard to scoff at those final phrases. Christine did still not trust his word. It was not certain that Hassan would whisk her away to court, she could end up in a whole other place if she was not careful.

"But… I will be alone there. Despite detesting you for the death of my fiancé, you are the only one I can rely on, my lord. I do not wish to part ways from you," she said in a desperate voice. Braun could not believe his ears. This was not the Christine he knew.

"We will never part ways, truly," he blinked. "I must go now," he whispered as his presence was required with the Ottomans. He was beyond pleased at her desperation—he knew he had her then, or so he thought.

As he left her, Christine fought an involuntary shudder at his touch. Yet, a small grin touched her lips. It seemed Braun was slowly letting down his defenses around her—thinking he had won her for his own.

 _April 2_ _nd_

In the dead of night, they slowly made their way to shore. The waves were high and perilous, splashing against their faces as they fought the current. Tristan could hear Joseph's rugged breaths behind him as he clung to the rope. He had tied a piece of rope around himself and given Joseph a piece of floating wood to hang on to.

They had silently climbed into the water—the three of them. The clouds were all but absent from the moonlit sky. And so they started swimming toward shore. Lucius had a sack of their belongings on his back. Tristan dragged a mortified Joseph behind him, his tired muscles fought hard against the black waters.

It seemed to take them forever. The icy waters chilled them to the bone. Mouthfuls of the liquid seemed to jump into their panting mouths every so often. But soon they arrived on the sandy beach. The three of them dragged themselves upon the wet sand—the waves breaking against the land, just at their feet.

Tristan lay on his back, staring up at the stars. He was so close to her that he could almost feel her touch.

"I am never…doing that…again," Lucius said in between breaths. He cast the fabric sac away, trying to regain his composure. He tore off his leather boots, letting the water run in a clear stream from the confinements of his shoes. He unpacked their clothes, setting them on the beach to dry while he wrung his loose chemise. Tristan was still too tired to move yet, as he had not only dragged Joseph but the big board he had clung to and his own bag of clothes.

"When we return we steal a boat if we have to," Joseph muttered. "This was worse than swimming under the walls of Rome."

"Agreed," Tristan said after a long while. "But only because Joseph can't swim," he teased. Joseph gave out an angry snort but he did not say more. After a few minutes of catching their breaths, they got up.

"We need to regroup. Tonight we travel toward the city and tomorrow early morning we enter it through the north gate."

"And when do we sleep?" Lucius and Joseph said in unison.

"A few hours before we enter—if we have time," Tristan offered in a curt voice. "Or you can just wait for me here," he continued.

"No! We will see this through," Lucius said, placing a hand on his shoulder. "Sleep is not important now, getting into that city is."

Tristan gave them a nod. They let their clothes dry for a bit more until they scooped them up, draping them over their backs as they started their walk toward Constantinople.

They walked in silence under the guiding light of the moon. The trio kept from the main roads, as they had planned. Every so often they would hear something and duck in the bushes. But it was often the wind or shadows, playing tricks on their tired minds. Hours seemed to pass as they walked up, toward an elevated plateau. Soon the sea was far below them, in the distance. They looked over the glittering ocean from the cliff upon which they stood. Further south they saw the lights of the city, spreading its arms over the small point upon which it sat.

"Is that…?" Joseph began, but he could not finish his sentence. He could not believe he had gotten to see so much of the world during the past few weeks. To think he was about to enter Constantinople, taken from the Byzantines almost seventy years ago.

"It is," Tristan answered. The memories of the city began to stir once more. He wished Sofia could be here with him, to be able to lay her eyes on that magnificent city once more. In the lights of the many lit candles, they could discern the wall that enveloped and protected the many buildings and small houses. He immediately saw the outline of the converted mosque—once a might cathedral that had never seen its equal, until they built a larger one in Seville. He even managed to locate the Royal palace—a place he had never been to. He had only been a commoner, a peasant then, not a lord. It still felt strange to think of himself as a lord. Tristan had always accepted his role as a general of an army, but never as a count. But he accepted that title because of _her_. He had never really wished to take part of the nobility, it held little for him. He had little use of vast lands and riches—he was a wanderer, a free man, just like Zoráida had put it. Maybe, when all was over, Christine would not be against traveling the world herself. But he would not be selfish and ask such a thing of her.

"You said you lived here once," murmured Joseph as he caught sight of Tristan silently regarding the city. "Was it very long ago?"

He remained silent for a while, as usual. After what felt like an age, Tristan answered. "It feels that way," he rasped. "My life as I know it began here," he continued, almost mesmerized by the vision before him.

Joseph kept up the chatter, but Lucius could not ignore what he had heard. Was it here were Tristan started wearing the mask? He wondered if he had encountered some sort of accident in that city, leaving him disfigured for the rest of his life. It made the young man less eager to enter its confinements. Yet, Constantinople held a strange attraction to him, as if its mysteries slowly pulled him in, making him want to uncover all of its secrets. Lucius had a feeling he was about to encounter a whole new and strange world. They were outside of the Christian world now—in a whole new territory.

"To think this city was lost only a couple of generations ago, and that few lifted a finger to help," he said with melancholy in his voice. "…a city that had been ours for millennia." Lucius saw the glittering lights and the strange architecture of the buildings. His curiosity grew for what it might look like in daylight.

"It is not our place to dwell on such things. We were not alive when it happened. What is done is done," Tristan said. He had only known Constantinople under the Ottomans, but he had heard some speak of how it used to be under Byzantine rule—much like how Musa used to speak of Al-Andalus: southern Spain under Moorish rule. It was no different—they were the same stories that glorified different ways of living.

"Dawn will soon be upon us. I suggest we find a place to rest before entering the city. Our clothes should be dry by then and we should be able to change," Tristan said as he put his bag of clothes and provisions down. They were barely half a mile from the city gates. Yet their aching bodies needed a good rest. Most of their clothes were dry, but some were still humid, and they wanted them to be dry, lest they freeze as they lay still during the rest of the night.

Time seemed to pass quickly. The heavens slowly circled above them, the stars shining their faint lights over the three resting forms. Tristan could see the different signs in the sky—star-signs he had been taught as a young boy, by his own mother. It was one of the few things that reminded him of her in a positive manner.

With each breath, early morning seemed closer—and with that came its cold. It was the frost before the warmth of the sun warmed the land. The sky lit up at the nearing fiery globe, the frost covered grass slowly thawed and a fresh layer of dew now covered the emerald carpet upon which they lay. They had seen many impressive sunrises since setting out from Angloa, but—to Lucius and Joseph, few could compare to the vision before them.

As the rays of the golden orb illuminated the picturesque scene, they caught their first glimpse of the ancient city.

Once catching its sight, the Sea of Marmara was left behind. They had arrived at the point where Europe almost touched Asia—only a thin stretch dividing their final union. Once seven small towns on seven hills had stood here, and now they united in the embrace of the sea to form an incomparable city, unique to its time. It embodied the essence of an ideal city, with its fields, its sea, its port, connecting rivers, gardens, deep valleys and leafy hills, narrow streets, oceans of houses and peaceful lagoons that no brush nor painter could ever begin to express fully.

From whence they stood, they perceived all, and perhaps, even a little bit more. Distinguishing themselves against the surrounding beauty were the Topkapi—the castle of the Seven Towers, the dome of Saint Sophia, the minarets of the mosque of Achmet, the green cypresses of Scutari. They all rose to meet the sky as prayers of nature by which, in their shadow, lay the distant countryside. They discerned houses of recreation and harems, hidden among forests of flowers and vegetables. The white lines of the aqueducts—almost erased by festoons of ivy, snaked between the houses and monuments. The Bosporus, with its undulating surface, moved in a steady rhythm, made by the fighting currents. And the Golden Horn stood motionless as the Sea of Marmara—resplendent as an immense mirror—was illuminated by the splendid sun of the East, reflecting that beautiful sky in its immensity.


	10. Chapter 10

**WHISPERS OF THE PAST**

 _Chapter 10_

 _October 21_ _st_ _, 1488 – Wessport_

Philip stared at his two daughters, playing side by side. Carina was holding the small hand of Miriam in her own, as she showed her around the gardens of the palace. Miriam had started to look more and more like her mother, while Carina took after him. Whenever he lay eyes upon his youngest, the scarred wound in his heart would reopen. Painful memories of him rushing into Adelton Hall, only to find he had been too late—his wife had perished only minutes before. He still remembered her hair, her smell, and her open eyes as she stared emptily at the ceiling while her newborn daughter lay next to her, softly crying and screaming.

Catherine Vega had been the one to take charge. She spoke of what they had told the queen—that his wife thought she had given birth to a son. Philip would have wanted it that way as well, for then that suffering would not have been for nothing if she could at least die in peace. He renamed the child Miriam, taking it into his embrace, asking to be left alone with his wife and daughter.

He had cried then, his soul ripped to pieces, just like when Edmund had perished. Philip had lamented his life, cursing his existence. He always thought he would die before her, not that she would leave him alone on this earth.

His daughters were still oblivious to the harshness of the world, to the existence they'd been thrust into. Philip had few years left, and the only man he trusted was Athar, who had lost his own wife and child only a few years ago.

The general cold and gray afternoon suited his state of mind. Athar found him sitting on a damp stone bench, watching over the two girls as the leaves turned color, soon falling dead to the ground—making way for winter.

"They are growing fast, Your Majesty," he said, watching as Carina commanded Miriam around the gardens, both chasing each other.

"Too fast. I worry about their future," Philip said in a distant tone.

"You could still make Carina your heir."

"Few people from Marianne's family remain. She would have little support against Magnus' claim."

"To think Magnus makes no moves to hide his yearning for your crown," Athar snapped. "He has few followers, but those who remain loyal are indeed powerful to him."

"My brother's soul has been corrupted by greed. I can see the hunger for power in his eyes whenever we meet. Too late is it now to send him away—too late to openly renounce him before all. I cannot send him away from court unless I want to cause a civil war." Philip felt those words sour in his mind. "A war between brothers." The thought disgusted him. He'd rather let it slide because even if Magnus' brashness was disrespectable, he would not take action against him, knowing well it would end in misery and death for Angloa.

Philip sighed, looking at his oldest daughter who sent a smile his way. "I am king, yet I am powerless." He clenched his jaw, a glazed look clouded his eyes. Philip was more tired than he had ever been before. "I've no heir, no one to take my place. When I am gone, I know my brother will take the crown."

"Then produce another child with another woman," Athar dared. He knew it was a delicate subject. But he was also the only one who could breach it, without incurring the ire of the king.

"We have already spoken of this, Thomas. I will not remarry," Philip snapped. "And I am old. I do not think I can father another child."

"You could at sixty-nine, so why not at seventy-three?" Athar asked. Philip looked away, not willing to speak more of it. He ran his fingers through his white hair, raising an arrogant eyebrow at his friend.

"I will not disrespect Marianne—"

"If you wish to secure your daughters' future if you wish them to be safe in this court, then remarry someone from a powerful family and have a child with that woman. It is the only way to keep the country away from Magnus, and from Rebecca. You have no male heir and he will claim the throne because if it. There are still many loyal to you, but if you do not remarry, many may turn to support Magnus, in fear of what the repercussions will be once he becomes monarch.

"And who did you have in mind?" Philip asked, understanding the importance of Athar's words.

"Leonore of Valois, daughter of the Count of Anglouême," he said with hope in his voice.

He was familiar with her family. They were relatives of the current king of France. But her name made Philip despair. "She is not even twenty yet, and she is to marry someone nearly fifty years her senior? I think not," he scoffed.

"Her family has a grand presence in the French court. Your child would have their backing. And it is they who have reached out to us, expressing their wishes to form an alliance between the house of Fell and Valois."

Philip took some time to think about it. He stared at his playing daughters, only wishing the best for them. "I will think about it. But I wish to meet this Leonore before anything is decided. She will have to tell me herself of her wish to marry me," Philip said. He was certain that once the Frenchwoman saw the old man she was to marry, she would back out immediately.

 _December 14_ _th_ _, 1488 – Adelton Hall_

He had forgotten how beautiful Adelton could be during winter. The place could only bring him sorrow now. It was the deathbed of both his son and loving wife. Every corridor, every stone reminded him of them. It was as if the walls sighed their names when he walked by.

Philip stared at the image in the mirror. He was old, too old. He started to feel it, in his knees and back—his aching limbs just about ready to give out after a hard day. But, most of all, he saw it in his face, in his eyes. They were tired, from all that life had thrown his way. They had lost their luster after Marianne's death.

His presence in Cadherra was kept a secret. Lord Vega and his wife were trustworthy and had agreed to house the king. He was nervous, for the first time in a long time. Philip was aware of his age, especially since he was to meet a girl almost fifty years his junior—soon to be his wife.

The girl had traveled from France as soon as Athar's letter had reached the seat of her family. Her brother, Guillaume, had escorted her there himself.

They were to meet in the old throne room. He took one last look at the mirror and saw an echo of what he used to be. Philip snickered at it, arching an eyebrow and chuckling as the expression made him look younger. He walked away, opening the door and strolling along the quiet corridors. His breath escaped in a white cloud, his nose turning red from the cold that escaped the damp walls.

He reached the Throne Room too soon. The monarch stood outside that door and hesitated before commanding one of the guards to open it. The king stepped through the tall doors and into the lit space. Lord and Lady Vega stood together with Athar and some other gentlemen, speaking with delightful expressions on their faces. When the king's presence was announced they turned to bow.

"Sire," Athar exclaimed as Philip neared them. "This is the lady's own brother that we've had the pleasure to converse with." Philip neared them and saw a fierce-looking young Frenchman who bowed extra deep as the king arrived upon the group.

" _Votre Majesté, c'est une grand honneur de faire votre connaissance_ ," he spoke in hushed French. When he straightened, he saw the arched eyebrow of the king.

"I was never much good with languages," Philip started with a roughish grin. "But I have it on good authority that your English is excellent," he mused. The Frenchman in question frowned before letting a chuckle escape.

"It seems you have done your research," Guillaume said in a thick French accent.

The other people present, besides Lord and Lady Vega and Athar, were the Angloan ambassador as well as some noblemen from France, there to escort Leonore Valois.

"I hope your sister's English is as good as your own," Philip said. "I am too old to start learning French," he lamented but never apologizing.

The ambassador offered a small smile. "The lady's English is superb, Your Majesty. But perhaps you should see for yourself."

In the splendor of winter, the Throne Room was lit up to the brim in golden candlelight. It dulled the sights and colors, giving off a mysterious aura.

Leonore of Valois was the last to enter the room. She was followed by her ladies as the doors opened to reveal her presence.

Into the Throne Room walked a woman so beautiful that Philip felt his jaw drop slightly at the sight of her. Her skin was as white as the snow that fell upon the castle, her hair was as black as a raven's wing. Her lips were full and red, reminiscent of the deep color of cherry. The oval face was cast down, her eyes gazing at the floor. Philip felt the sudden need to see those eyes of hers. Her body was richly dressed in fine silks and jewels, a small train trailing behind her. The purple fabric made a bold statement; she was to be royalty—a queen. Philip wondered if she had chosen the color of the dress herself, or if it had been chosen by her brother.

Leonore glided toward him with easy steps and when she reached the group, she gave a deep curtsy, her face lifting from the floor to stare directly at Philip. For the first time in a while, the king found no words. He was so taken by her that he could only stare—even if only for a few seconds. Her eyes were the most tantalizing things he'd ever seen. The gold that framed her iris popped out like a shining beacon, while the blue that enclosed them, sparkled like rich sapphires. Her orbs captivated him and bewitched him.

" _Majesté_ ," she murmured. The tone was rich, unwavering and decided.

All Philip could do was to offer her his hand. "Shall we take a stroll about the room?" He wanted to get away from the curious onlookers and prying eyes that hovered behind his back. The young woman understood and hesitantly reached for his arm.

They started walking away from the others, heading for the tall windows that offered them a view of the meadows stretching to Coldwick—illuminated by the silver light of the moon.

Both walked in silence for a long while. Leonore made no effort to speak to him. Philip had always been so used to people always wanting a word in his presence that the silence of the woman by his side was new yet refreshing.

"Your choice in dress intrigues me," Philip said, squinting his eyes as he eyed the purple robe. It provoked a light smile in the woman. Her whole face lit up from the expression.

"Purple is the royal color," she stated, turning to look at him.

"Then I suspect I have the answer to my question. I take it you are for this marriage then," he said, almost solemnly. All he received was a nod of confirmation. Even though she was a beauty, his chest felt like it was ripped open as memories of Marianne would not escape. She was ever present, always in his heart.

Philip turned to face her, making sure they were not being watched. "I want to make things clear, my lady," he started as he took her hands in his. "I do not want you to enter this marriage with preconceived inclinations. I will always love my late wife, always. And I am old, very old. You are young enough to be my grandchild—I do not ignore that—." But before he could continue, Leonore bowed her head in respect before placing a hand on his arm.

"What I see in you, _Majesté_ , is a kind man who has much wisdom. I am a nobleman's daughter. Being married off to a king is a great pride for me and my family. I ask little. I only hope I will be worthy of you," she said in a calm manner. Even though there was a general politeness, Philip saw that she lacked the warmth in her eyes that had always been present in Marianne. He sighed, knowing well that the girl had little say in the matter. Yet, she seemed determined to be his queen.

"Then I suppose we are to be married," he stated after a while, wondering if she knew what she'd gotten herself into.

* * *

 _April 2_ _nd_ _, 1520 – Constantinople_

The gate stood between two heptagonal towers built in later Byzantine times. The arch was slightly pointed, red and white bricks alternating as it pointed elegantly up. It was tall, looming over the three men who stared at the endless wall. It seemed to have roots reaching the center of the earth.

Joseph, Lucius, and Tristan had changed clothes, casting aside their Angloan doublets and simple hoses for Italian styles. They dressed as merchants, with rich details on the fabrics they wore. Tristan dressed in a bright red doublet, the damask lining was in ivory and even purple. Joseph and Lucius dressed in copper and dusty green. Their barrettes were low on their faces.

"You will not speak, even when spoken too," Tristan murmured under his breath as they neared the first defense of the city. Threatening guards stood by the doors to Constantinople, armed with fine swords and tough armor.

"Do they even know the difference between English and Italian?" Joseph's keen eyes searched the scene before him. But he could not help but stare at the city—the world that lay beyond that vast gate.

"You would be surprised." Tristan adjusted his mask one final time, ready to enter. They had no papers to show, not that the guards would usually ask for identification at the northwestern gate—if he remembered correctly.

The three of them walked with purpose toward the growing crowd. It was the first swarm waiting to be let in. Most were farmers, wanting to sell their goods at the markets. Some were travelers, on fine horses or in carriages, impatient to enter the city. Tristan and his friends stood out as strangers—they had no horses and no possessions with them.

The _ghazi_ , the guards, soon took notice of them as they neared in the queue. They eyed the strange westerners. Joseph eyed the guards, dressed in fine tunics, with curved swords hanging from their hips, armor guarding their chest against any critical blows.

Upon nearing them, they were swiftly taken aside by two guards, growing unfriendly as communication seemed difficult. The three of them did not understand what the Ottomans were saying, nor did the Ottomans understand the strangers. Tristan kept insisting on talking in Italian, and he finally received a threatening sneer. They wanted identification—for one kept pointing at his mask. When it became clear that the three had no idea what was being said to them, one guard turned to his friend.

"Get Karid," he said, his black eyes taking in the strange trio. The masked one worried him most. Yazid could feel the eyes stare at him from underneath the mask. The large form stretched over him, it felt. But the man stood still, never moving a muscle. He did not like the fright that took a hold of him. Yazid knew one thing, and it was that he would never want to get into a fight with the masked one.

Footsteps echoed from the ground as two men approached with hurry. When his friend came with Karid in tow, Yazid let out a breath of relief.

A striking man in a pristine military uniform came up to them. The trio had been taken further to the side, away from the prying eyes of the farmers and other travelers. Karid wore loose trousers in navy blue, reaching his ankles. His sash was black and he bore a short tunic in the same black and blue. The silver buttons reached all the way up to his neck—each piece perfectly polished. His black mustache was neatly trimmed, just as his hair was pulled back, away from his face. The man bore a small hat, much like the other guards. He looked proud to be wearing the uniform. The lines in his face were harsh, that of a hardened soldier. He bore wrinkles that did not match his age—the mark of constant worrying. His tanned face sagged with the downturn of his mouth, a constant frown that never left his face. His eyes were strikingly clear—hazel that had darkened. Alas, they seemed harsh now.

He stared at them for a while, until his orbs locked on Tristan. Suddenly something lit up in the hard eyes—a memory, or an emotion that seemed unbecoming in this hardened military man.

"We thought it best you interrogate these men yourself, sir," Yazid said, sure Karid would agree.

"You are dismissed," came the harsh voice of his superior. Yazid and his other friend both stared in disbelief.

"Surely you will not take them back to the garrison yourself?"

Karid turned to them, the unpleasant harshness back in his face. "I will not repeat myself." Although Joseph nor Lucius understood him, there was something in Karid's tone that sounded familiar. They turned to stare at Tristan, who patiently watched the outcome of the conversation. The guards did as he bade, walking back to man the gate. Once they were away, Karid motioned them to follow him. Yazid stared in furious disbelief as the strangers walked into his city, without even an inspection or a questioning. He looked at the masked man.

"Those damned Venetians," he muttered, spitting to the ground. "They always have connections."

"They have money, and lots of it," a farmer muttered as he walked past.

Houses in a myriad of shapes and muted colors defined narrow and crooked streets the moment they passed the walls. Some trees dotted the urban scene as men and women walked by the houses, careful of not stepping into the waste of the middle road. Fabrics hung out of some windows, painting the facades of the houses—telling their own stories. Behind the first buildings, taller houses rose, and they in their own term were overshadowed by even taller structures. It was not like the structured and linear Wessport that Lucius and Joseph were so used to. Their initial thought of Constantinople was that of contained chaos. But it was an exciting chaos. Their breaths caught in their throats as eyes bulged out of their sockets watching strangely dressed men and women stroll the streets. Tristan pulled the hood over his mask, the looks beginning to tear at him as all could not ignore the mask that concealed his face.

Karid did not even bother to check that they followed him—he was certain the trio would catch up. He led them through the maze, each turn disorienting them more than the last. When they thought they had walked for an age, he finally stopped. Lucius and Joseph looked around, growing alert as they found themselves in a desolate alley, far away from the bustling roads.

The Ottoman waited for one of them to speak. His wrinkles turned more prominent when Tristan pulled down the hood of his cape. Their stares rose the tension in the air, making Joseph and Lucius starting to reach for their weapons.

"A captain of the guard?" Tristan finally scoffed in amused disbelief. His otherwise dark and brooding voice grew lighter, easier on the ears—something it had started doing lately. It was a nice change that Lucius and Joseph welcomed. Gone was the rasping growl, replaced by a fine masculine tune that strangely suited him better.

Karid nodded at him with stiff movements. "Still wearing that mask?" he retorted before a huge grin spread across his features. It looked strange—the harsh face broke apart as a smile softened his features. It looked bizarre to Lucius and Joseph.

Both men took the other's hand in a firm handshake, gripping the forearm of the other. But they soon embraced, giving strong pats on their backs.

"You know him?" Joseph blurted out.

"He speaks English?" Lucius cried, feeling completely fooled.

Karid ignored them with a mere chuckle. The middle-aged man released Tristan, looking around to be sure no one was spying on them. "Playing the part of a Venetian was smart—it could have ended rather differently," Karid argued, turning serious as he scolded them. But soon curiosity won and he could not help but ask. "What are you doing here?" his eyes widened like that of a child as he strove to understand.

"I have traveled far and long, my friend. Perhaps here is not the best place to explain it all," Tristan said in muted tones, his eyes jumping back and forth between the windows that lined the higher walls surrounding them.

"Say no more. You will come home with me this instant. We can speak there," Karid said.

"Indeed." Tristan pointed at his uniform. "You will have to explain how you became a Captain of the guards."

All the masked man received was a chuckle.

 _April 1_ _st_

"Lord Braun has asked for you again."

"Tell him I am still indisposed." Christine sipped her tea, savoring her closing victory. In a few hours, Hassan would return, hopefully whisking her away. She savored Braun growing evermore impatient—she understood that she was his final hope. Christine was no fool, she understood what was going on.

When Braun had kidnapped her, he had done so out of spite no doubt. But on their way to Constantinople, he had realized he could use her for his own benefit. By selling her away to the Royal Harem he would be in favor with the Sultan himself, if Christine pleased him, of course. If not, he would sell her to the highest bidder and still make a profit.

She gripped the china harder, her eyes darkening as she thought of Braun's future. If she gained the favor of the Sultan or his son, she would indeed take her revenge—for Tristan. She would enjoy as she watched Braun fall from grace.

"Spite does not become you," a voice sneered to her left. The servant girl who had been attending her swiftly left the room as Melike entered. Christine was caught off guard, but she did not allow herself to look startled.

She took another sip of the brew. "Is it another lesson of yours, hanim?" she mocked. Christine gained confidence at the promise of soon being taken away from there. All she received was a dry chuckle.

"You are more of a fool than I gave you credit for," Melike taunted. Christine put down the teacup with force, looking at the aged woman from under her eyelashes.

"Enlighten me."

Melike strolled around the room, her eyes never leaving Christine—the judging look always there; always mocking, always severe. "Lord Hassan will make sure you enter some harem," she started, moving toward the table. "If he wills it, you could become a woman of the Sultan," she said.

"Are you afraid of what might happen to you if I do?" Christine rose, gliding toward Melike in confident steps. "Are you afraid of what I might whisper in his ear?" she chuckled, her head to one side as if contemplating Melike. The older woman's face did not move a muscle.

"You are foolish if you think living in that world is easy. But you will see the hardships for yourself. I will not even begin to mention the backstabbing, the lies, and the conspiracies. This is Constantinople. I was tasked with teaching you our ways, but I see now that you will not last long once you leave these walls," she lamented as if scolding a small child.

"I have already lived in that world," Christine countered, thinking of Wessport. "I am well aware of what it entails, how else do you think I ended up here?"

"Your sob stories do not interest me. But tell me, child—once you arrive at the Royal Palace— _if_ you ever arrive there, will you truly be ready to give yourself to the Sultan and become his woman? Maybe you will indeed have that luck, or maybe Lord Hassan has planned to take you for himself. He seemed rather fond of you."

"Wherever I go, it will still entail the beginning of the end for Braun—I will make sure his life ends here."

Melike scoffed at her words. "Revenge is a double-edged sword—you may harm the other, but you will suffer from the process. Few ever recover," she warned.

They stood only a breath away from each other. Christine sensed Melike's sweet breath hit her face. Her whole body tensed, she wondered if Melike would even reveal their conversation to Braun—it mattered little for she would soon be away from there.

"An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth—Braun will suffer for all that he has done, one way or another. I will make sure his victims receive the justice they deserve." She was surprised at the confidence in her voice. Melike was shorter than she, and Christine felt herself tower over the other woman. The young Angloan stepped away with an arrogant smile on her face, blinded by her own revenge.

"I will not see Lord Braun until I have spoken with Hassan, you can tell your master as much, _hanim_ ," she curtsied, waiting for Melike to leave her room. The older woman never showed any sign of emotion other than disgust and irritation. She left the room without a word. As soon as the door shut, Christine went to sit by the table, her breath leaving her in short bursts as her heart calmed down.

The hours passed and the day went by quickly. Christine would not show it, but she was afraid to leave the confinements of her room—not wanting to stumble upon Braun as he asked for her. She wondered where his desperation to see her came from. Perhaps he was rapidly losing favor among his powerful friends; her ascension to court or to any powerful household seemed to be of vital importance to him.

When twilight was nigh, a knock sounded on her door. She instantly knew it not to be Melike, for the woman never bothered to knock before entering her chamber. Christine thought it to be one of the servants, there with her evening meal.

"I am not hungry," she spoke up, hoping they would leave her alone. But there was no answer; another knock sounded, louder this time. She got up from bed with a sigh. Christine wrapped her muslin nightgown around her and took short, irritated strides toward the door, ready to give the insisting servant a piece of her mind.

It was too late to slam the door shut as she saw his thin face. The thin hair fell into his eyes, the high forehead was wrinkled in a slight frown. He had somewhat dark circles under his sharp eyes, looking for something in hers as he caught her by surprise.

"My lord?" Christine squealed at the sight of him. His chemise was untied at the top and he bore no doublet or tunic—the weather had grown warmer at nights.

Braun pushed past her and entered the space without a word. His back was tense as he stopped in the middle of the room. Christine could not discern if he was angry at her or at something else. But there was something that bothered him.

"I have called on you the whole day," he finally said after a long silence. Christine stood by the open door, wanting to flee the man that had invaded her room. He still had not turned around so she could not read his expression.

"I thought it best that way," she clumsily tried to explain.

He stared at the tidy room, taking in the details and decorations as if waiting for her to speak. When she offered no words, Braun turned to meet her. He looked tired and defeated; showing his vulnerable state before her.

"Hassan is here," he said with a sigh. Christine could practically taste his defeat. But when he walked to the door and closed it, she felt as if he had closed the door to her prison.

"Will you not let me go?" she asked, hoping he would think her innocent of any malice. Braun still leaned against the door. The eyes that looked at her made her shiver, she felt trapped under his gaze—disgusted at his nearness. All she could think when she saw him was the hate she felt toward him. Images of Mrs. Rochester and the violated maids were conjured up in her mind and her face grew somber.

"Why did you ignore my summons?" he demanded, his voice harsh. But Braun knew better than to be cruel with her—he needed her on his side after all. Yet the desperation festered. He was wary that she would turn her back on him once she left his home—and she had ample reason to. She thought him the killer of Tristan Hawthorne after all.

Christine turned from him, thinking of what she could say. "I—" she began, feeling at a loss for words. He still stood by the door, unwilling to let her leave to speak with Hassan until she had given him an explanation. Christine saw his wretched state—he was nervous, uneasy as the ground crumbled under him. She could not know how fast his position in Constantinople was falling, but it had to be extensive. His connections, his friends— they were all like sand being whisked away by the wind.

A part of her wanted to gloat in his misery, she wanted to lull him into a sense of false security, making him think she was loyal to him, only to strike back, when he least expected it. Another part saw a pathetic man before her, having to sleep in the bed he had made for himself.

"If you do not—" he began. Sensing a threat she met his gaze, her hands turning into fists as she for once disregarded the mask and showed her true face—that of sorrow and anger. _"Spite does not become you"_ —Melike's words rang through her mind like a warning bell. She could not talk to Braun as she had spoken with Melike.

The only thing left for her was to speak from her heart, albeit not the whole truth. "You have me confused, my lord." Christine felt her legs grow roots as she anchored herself like a strong tree to the floor. She took courage in herself, not willing to stand down as the towering lord regarded her with the same harsh look.

"Confused?" he scoffed, walking away from the door to meet her. Braun wanted to see her submit to him, to look down and acknowledge him the better man. Then he knew she would always remain in the palm of his hand. He hoped Melike had made her seen how hard harem life would be and that Christine would turn to him always.

"You took me away from my home, from my land and my family on a horrible journey across the sea—to this strange land. Yet, you have treated me with patience and a semblance of kindness." Braun felt hope at those words, maybe she was showing her gratitude now that they were alone, maybe she would finally reveal her loyalty to him.

But then her expression grew more somber as pain shone through the sorrow that had ruled her gaze. Braun could not ignore how a twinge of guilt coursed through him at that expression. "But you killed my fiancé, and you were proud of it. You plotted against the king, and you were proud of that as well. You have me confused, my lord, for I wonder who is the true Braun; the one who killed Tristan, or the one who took care of my back as I lay feverish on that bed from the infection?"

"You cannot choose. I did what I did to survive," he started, the arrogance and pride never leaving him. He had told her of Hawthorne's demise because it felt good. He had regretted it later, knowing it would only turn her against him. Minutes after setting out from Angloa he already had a plan, a very simple plan. He would take what money he had left and travel to Constantinople; there he would train her and then sell her to the highest bidder—which happened to be Lord Hassan. If Christine entered the harem, he knew she could eventually gain power in the city, so he understood that he had to treat her with kindness, so that she would not turn against him. He wanted her loyalty finally, to benefit from selling her. Of course, Christine would never know that she was actually being sold as a slave until it was too late.

"Then, after all the hardships I've had to face because of you, allow me one question, where you will give me a truthful answer. I will know if you are lying, my lord. If you permit me this one request, I will remain faithful to you if I should ever claim favor with the Sultan or the prince—alas, I think it highly unlikely."

They both knew it was a defining moment. Christine could have asked for anything else or lashed out at him for his poor answer. Yet she demanded a question—something he knew would be difficult to answer. Braun knew he had no honor to his word or name with her, yet she asked him to be truthful. The honesty in her eyes hurt him, and he grew consistently estranged with himself. How could he feel sorry for her when he had felt nothing but hatred against her fiancé? He wished life could have been different and he could have been a better man. But he was not—he took what he wanted and fought only for himself. Yet, he could not deny her request.

"Very well," he said in a guarded tone, alert at what she would say.

"Promise me you will answer truthfully."

The night was falling quickly—darker than they had ever seen before. The moon did not shine that evening, obscured by ominous clouds that threatened to spill droplets onto the city. The air was loaded with tension from the oncoming storm. The metallic smell in the air added to the rising tension between them.

"I will," Braun said through gritted teeth. She must be a witch, was all he could think. For how could she otherwise get him to agree on this request? He reasoned that he needed to satisfy her curiosity. He needed her to be loyal if she was to enter court; as money had run out, his friends had all but left him. Christine was the only thing he had left—he would practically sell her like a slave to get what he wanted.

"You said you killed my fiancé," her voice trembled as she spoke—thinking of the death of Tristan. "Did you kill him during the fight for the palace or after?"

It was Braun's time to be confused, what did it matter if he killed Hawthorne before or after? He did not wish to tell her Tristan was alive, even if it had been a mistake to look like his killer. All she needed to know now was that he was dead—it would remove all hope of being rescued. It would make her more obeying and complying.

"Before," he answered on a whim, lying as best as he could. But Braun never knew the implications that answer meant for her. Christine quickly put on her mask, hoping he did not see the horror that had invaded her. She felt her pupils grow smaller, her flesh crawl and sweat begin to pearl at her temples. Alas, Braun was blind to the effect his response created in her.

"I... thank you for your honesty." She had seen through his lie. Christine thought then that Braun had killed Tristan after his plot had failed—that he had killed Tristan only out of spite. His hatred for her fiancé must have been great and she feared that Tristan had suffered a lot.

Christine stared at Braun and gave him a false smile, channeling the hatred that coursed through her. She was blinded against the double-edged sword. Christine Vega would make him suffer greatly.

"May I go now?" Her voice was sweet as she asked. Braun seemed less on edge than before—slowly falling for her façade, thinking she would keep her promise of loyalty.

"You may," he said. Christine curtsied deeply, showing respect before leaving him alone in her room. Before she closed the door, a cruel expression spread on her face as she thought of all the pain she could put him through. The first lightning bolt released in a burst of electricity across the sky as she made her way to meet Hassan and, despite herself, her new life.

 _April 2_ _nd_

Dingy houses with narrower streets crowded as they reached Karid's quarters. The area seemed poorer here. They were the lowly workers of the city, scraping to get by. Most houses looked about ready to fall apart, except one. They stopped in front of the tallest house on the street. It had been newly whitewashed, standing out against the other dirty buildings. The façade had been restored—red and blue bricks lining the windows. The front door had been painted in turquoise. Some greenery hung out of the highest window, crawling down the wall to pool at the muddy ground.

Karid was proud as he showed them the outside of his house. The three of them entered, walking directly into the living area, tied to the kitchens.

"Our next project will be to open a courtyard—every great house should have a courtyard!" Karid said, his hand signaling the dimensions of the image in his head. Three women stood at the end of the room, close to the kitchens. One of them, the oldest, could not drag her eyes off of Tristan and soon she gave off a loud exclamation of joy. The woman practically ran to him and showered him with affectionate hugs and kisses, before giving him sharp retorts.

"Eleven years! Eleven years! You tell that gypsy to come here so I can give her a piece of my mind! How could you leave without a word?" she cried in her language.

"I am glad to see you as well, Tohin," Tristan said in his low voice as he bowed slightly. But the older woman ignored him, only scoffing.

"Ignoring my questions, as always. You have not changed." But she eyed him. Last time Tohin had seen Tristan he had been a mere teenager, tall and lanky, still growing into his limbs. She saw a different man now. He did not let the mask rule him anymore, instead, he had made it his own. His body had changed as well. It was a lot stronger, muscles could be seen through the Venetian clothing, even the square jaw was visible through his leather mask.

"But in some other things you have indeed changed," she acknowledged.

"Leave him be, mother!" Karid quipped. "We've no time for your endless talks," he said. Karid turned to Tristan. "Nefise married so she doesn't live here anymore. She works for a _lord_ ," he said with pride in his voice as he spoke of his young sister. "Kamil is out but I see that his wife is here," he said, pointing at one of the women, dressed in muted clothes. "And the one next to her is Mehmi's wife, Asul. They married three years ago." The younger woman bore finer clothes in shades of blue. "They have two children that you should meet!"

"We have little time," Tristan said. "We need to speak, Karid," he urged.

Karid, carried away by Tristan's return, turned serious. The harsh captain seemed gone as soon as he had entered the confinements of his house.

Tohin, his mother, grew worried at such words. "Is there something wrong?" she asked, the deep lines in her face growing deeper. Her small eyes widened as her mouth opened, waiting for Tristan's response.

"I need your son's help regarding a matter of great urgency. I will tell you as soon as he and I have spoken, I promise," he said, taking her hands in his. Tohin had only seen Tristan this worried once before, and it had been the night he had to leave Constantinople, without a word of where and why he was leaving. The old woman went from ecstatic at his presence to concerned. She glanced at the foreigners behind him. "These men are not Venetian, are they," she stated. When Tristan gave her no answer the old woman simply nodded. "Fine, Asul, Hafza and I will prepare you a bite to eat while you sit down with my son."

Karid sent his mother a thankful glance before leading the men up some stairs, to the upper floor. "The children are in the closed door to the left, but they do not understand your foreign tongue, we will be safe from prying eyes or ears here," he said as he led them to another room, at the back of the house.

The room was small and stuffed full of rolled up carpets and old furniture. Light streamed in through closed windows, the shutters broken and barely staying on the hinges. Karid lit several oil lamps, coughing as he stirred the dust that covered the room. Little trinkets in wood or metal covered a shelf on one side. From the ceiling hung various figurines from thin threads, painted in a myriad of colors.

"My brother, Kamil, is crafty with his hands. He sells whatever he makes at the market. These are the pieces no one wanted to buy," Karid explained as he caught view of Lucius' and Joseph's astonished faces. "Come, here," he showed. A corner was left untouched. He placed a rug on the floor so that they did not have to sit on the dirty wood planks.

"How long did you live in Constantinople?" Joseph blurted out in wonder as he kept staring around in the strange room. He did not realize he had asked a question before it was too late.

"Four years," Tristan offered in a curt voice before turning to Karid. "I need your help to find someone, an Angloan who lives in the city," he said, hoping Karid would have some information.

"But why?"

Tristan looked down at his crossed legs, staring at his gloved hands. "A few months ago, this person staged a coup against my king, in Angloa. Together with my friends here we managed to stop him. But he escaped, taking my fiancée as hostage in the process. We followed him as far as Rome, thinking he would seek up someone—but my guess was wrong. The man we suspected had no visible ties to the traitor. However, he did know where he might go next. So I dragged my companions here, on a last whim, hoping to find my intended."

Karid had narrowed his eyes as Tristan told his tale. His eyes bore the same harshness as before. He laced his fingers together, placing them under his chin as he appeared to be thinking. "Who would dare do such a thing," came the dark, angered voice. His accent seemed to make the words graver as Karid got up to pace around the stuffed room. "And you believe this lord to be here now? Why on earth would this westerner run here?"

"Apparently he was a diplomat—an ambassador, many years ago, and he keeps riches and even a house in the city—guarded for him by powerful friends," Tristan said.

Karid snickered at this. "He must not have liked what he saw upon his return. The balance of power is changing in this empire, my friend. It is feared that the Sultan is ill and many think Suleiman, his son, is to take the throne soon. If your friend had a semblance of power all those years ago, his riches must have disappeared when he came here. I even wonder if that house of his remains." Suddenly Karid's expression turned dark. The stout man turned his back on them, showing the tension that coursed through him.

"Unless," he whispered to himself. Tristan grew worried as well, starting to have an inkling as to what Karid was referring to.

"You do not think he would sell my fiancée into slavery, do you?"

"What?!" Joseph exclaimed. "Lord Braun would not stoop so low as to actually sell Christine, would he?"

Karid turned around, his expression seeming to confirm Joseph's words. "Maybe it is not as common in your lands, but here it is a common practice. Pirates will sell slave girls off to the highest bidder. Some end up in whore houses, others in the harem of some mighty lord. But the most fortunate ones end up in the Royal Harem, and the lucky ones may become mothers to the future sultans." His brown eyes widened. "If your traitor lord used to have connections in this city, he might be able to sell your fiancée off as a slave to the Royal Harem, catching a hefty price for her."

Tristan's presence stiffened the silence. The leather mask seemed—for the first time, to grow features, contrasting his innermost thoughts. The delicately crafted leather piece that hugged his features, only showing his eyes and mouth showed so much more then. The nostrils seemed to flare under the mask, beneath the molded nose that clung to his own. The eyeholes were suddenly too small for the widening eyes as he shook with uncontained anger. His jaw squared and something deep within him emerged—it was the Tristan both Joseph and Lucius had gotten to know during the war. It seemed the creature—the animal that had won the war for Angloa was back, emerged from within his being.

"Braun swore he would make me pay—she will end up in the worst place so that he can get back at me, no matter the price," Tristan growled in a voice so low that it sounded like the snarl of a wolf. He got up from the carpet and went to the window, the air in the room had all of a sudden grown too constricting for him. Tristan unbuttoned the first button of the red doublet.

"We need to find her," he whispered.

"But Constantinople is big, and your lord might have gone into hiding," Karid stated, surprised at Tristan's change in demeanor. He had never seen him in such control of his emotions before, nor had he seen such raw anger in those blue eyes.

"But do you not have friends? If we had more people looking it would work faster," Joseph said in a desperate voice. He had worried for Christine the whole voyage, much like Tristan. But now he started realizing just how grave her situation was.

"What about the network?" Tristan said, still not turning around to face them—he was not ready yet. He could not let them see the fright and worry that had seeped into his eyes. They could not know the wretched state he found himself in. He kept tensing and relaxing his muscles, unbuttoning yet another button of the doublet, finding it hard to breathe as he thought about her in the arms of another man.

"I haven't used it in years, and they would not trust me now that I am a captain of the guard," Karid sighed, ashamed that he could not be of more help. He saw the defeat in Tristan's shoulders as they sank toward the ground, gravity pulling endlessly at them.

Karid snapped his fingers as an idea hit him. "But Kamil might have more luck!" he exclaimed. "He is a craftsman, he was young when we would use the network, but he was intertwined in it. It could be possible," Karid said, staring off into the distance as the plan took form in his mind.

"When you say network, what do you mean? Informants?" Lucius guessed.

"He means people who could get the word out quickly in this city. It is a network of people who transport anything from information to goods. It is illegal of course, but it has served me and Karid through the years that we lived here. It helped me out of the city when I was forced to leave with Sofia eleven years ago," Tristan revealed. "We put the word out that we are looking for a blonde foreigner in the hands of Lord Braun and they will no doubt deliver," he said, liking Karid's idea more and more.

"Where is Kamil?" he turned around and hope had replaced fear and worry.

"Tristan, before we continue this I need to know what happened eleven years ago—why you had to leave so abruptly," Karid said, his harsh eyes drilling holes into the masked man. "And I suggest we do so in private." He cast a guarded glance toward Joseph and Lucius.

"No, I trust them. They may stay," Tristan sighed. "I should have told you before leaving, but Sofia insisted." The three men before him opened their ears as he started speaking. But all they were offered was a short explanation, barely satisfying their curiosity. It only left them with more questions.

"Sofia killed someone important. She was found out and I took the blame. We were forced to flee before the authorities could take us in and surely behead us both."

A warmth from the oil lamps rose as they flickered, almost uneasy from what they had heard. Joseph shivered at the ease in Tristan's voice—for he did not seem bothered by the fact that his guardian had murdered someone. He almost looked as if he wanted to push it aside, his countenance stoic as he spoke. But Lucius saw more—he saw the shift in Tristan's stance and the undertone of grief in his voice as he spoke. From whence he sat, the blue orbs of the masked man glittered with regret as his breathing increased.

"I have given you what you wanted," Tristan said to a stunned Karid. "Now help me get Christine back."


End file.
